Tragic Answers
by Jim Greeno
Summary: On a routine murder investigation, Nightwing uncovers a secret that will change his world forever.
1. Revelation

The Avalon Hill patrol is the most coveted on the BHPD beat. As Bludhaven's sole upscale area, Avalon Hill is almost a vacation for rookie officer Dick Grayson and his partner, Sgt. Amy Rohrbach. Their usual daily run-ins with drug dealers, prostitutes, and drunks were replaced by a more sophisticated type of street crime, like muggings and shootings.

This reality gave Dick his first gritty, realistic impression of Bludhaven as a whole. What's considered 'upscale' in Bludhaven barely passes for inhabitable in other cities.

Still, patrolling The Hill meant much less work, as the frequency of crimes requiring police attention drops from one every seven minutes to about one every half hour. Many officers get this particular patrol as a reward for good deeds (or services rendered, as the case may be). For Dick Grayson, it had been much easier. Drawing the Hill patrol was as simple as having a partner that the Duty Commander is hopelessly in love with.

"You know, we can probably keep this patrol if you marry him," Dick said matter-of-factly.

"Shut up, rookie," Amy replied, perturbed. He hadn't let up since they left the squad.

"I think a nice slap on the butt'll get us a week, easy."

"Can it, Grayson."

"Maybe a couple days at a time if you just let him tell people you're dating," he said, choking on a grin.

Amy sighed. She always preferred the days when her partner came in late looking as though he hadn't slept. At least then he stayed quiet in the car, concentrating only on staying awake so he wouldn't spill coffee on his uniform.

"If I can get him to give us a month for a French kiss, will you do it," he asked.

"SHUT! UP!"

Dick chuckled to himself, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he looked out the window. Then his expression suddenly changed.

"Amy, stop the car."

She pulled over, recognizing the rare, serious tone in his voice. "What is it?"

"That guy that just ducked into the alley…he was wearing a trenchcoat. It's awfully hot out for a trenchcoat," Dick replied as he exited the vehicle, walking quickly in the direction of the alley.

Amy cut the engine, removed the keys, and followed after him. Her gut told her to call him to a stop to wait for her. But as much as he sometimes irritated her to no end, he had excellent street instincts. Still an inexperienced patrolman, her partner had demonstrated some very advanced skills. 'Just enough to earn him the benefit of the doubt,' she thought.

She caught up to him just as he rounded the corner. The man was gone. Dick wanted to run to the opposite end to see if he could catch up and follow him for a while, but this was a cop patrol, not a Nightwing patrol. "Too late. Might've been nothing. Mind stopping in the hotel to take a look, just in case," he asked with a shrug.

"Lead on, rookie," she answered, rolling her eyes.

The hotel wasn't one of the area's nicest by any stretch of the imagination. Because it was located on the outskirts of the Hill, just outside Thrawn Park, the Fulton Hotel had to fight for its share of visitors, and the drab, unkempt exterior proved it was a losing battle. The inside isn't much better.

They strolled into the lobby just as a scream erupted from above them. Dick and Amy both broke into a run up the stairs to the third floor, following the echoes of repeated shrieks. They drew their weapons cautiously as they stepped onto the third floor landing. Dick spotted the screaming woman cowering against the wall, directly across from an open door.

Dick moved quickly past the door, pulling the woman away with him. Amy took her position on the opposite side of the door and they both brought their weapons up, preparing to enter. She locked eyes with Dick and nodded three times. On the third, they turned to enter the room. Amy swept into the room at a crouch, as Dick did the opposite, standing straight, covering the high ground.

"Dead guy," Amy said, nodding her head in the direction of the prone body lying on the floor with several gunshot wounds.

"Ya think," Dick asked as he quickly checked the bathroom and closet of the hotel room. He gave her the all-clear signal indicating that they were indeed alone, and they both holstered their weapons.

Amy gestured for Dick to tend to the woman while she spoke into her radio, "This is Five-Lincoln-Fifty-Six. We need a meatwagon and DT support at the Fulton Hotel, intersection of Ninth and Crenshaw, over."

"The lady says she didn't see anyone. Just found the body when she came out of her room, Sarge," Dick said.

"We'll stick with her until the snoops show up," she replied, pulling rubber gloves over her hands. Privately amused, Dick followed suit, knowing full well the BHPD detectives and crime lab would most likely goof up any actual evidence anyway. That being as it was, he decided to take a look around. He surveyed the room without moving, taking in all of the visual clues he could without arousing Amy's suspicion.

About ten minutes later, Detective Stuart Sexton arrived on the scene, shooing Amy and Dick outside so he could conduct his "investigation." Sexton was known to be a mean drunk and arguably the Hill's worst detective. He was also the type of cop that took great pride in bragging about his meager detection skills. After less than fifteen minutes in the hotel room, Sexton emerged, a scowl on his face.

"Not much to go on in there," he said to them, obviously meaning to begin an investigation lesson. "See, it's obvious the perp kicked in the door and started shooting before the guy could make any noise," he began.

Dick nodded, thinking silently to himself, 'Yeah, except there's no footprint or indentation on the door itself. What actually happened, Detective Lobotomy, was the perp knocked and waited for the vic to answer. If you'd taken the time to notice the GSW through the victim's right hand, you'd know he was shot through the door as he was releasing the chain.'

"So there wasn't a struggle of any kind. Guy got shot twice in the chest and once in the head, point blank. Most likely a pissed off girlfriend or business partner, or maybe just a robbery gone wrong."

Dick looked at Sexton wide-eyed. "Wow, you can tell all that just by looking around for a few minutes," he asked, feigning astonishment. 'You missed the large bruise on the victim's throat, genius. His first instinct had been to defend himself, not cry out for help. That gave the shooter time to give him a punch or chop to the throat to keep him quiet. Didn't shoot him point blank, either; no contact burns or obvious residue, and if he'd been closer than a few feet away, there would be more exit wounds than just the one on his hand. The nice gold watch on his left wrist also pretty much rules out a robbery, and a smart girlfriend wouldn't ice him in a hotel, where it'd be easy to surmise that he'd bought it during a rendezvous.'

"When ya been doing this long as I have, kid, you can figger these things out just by looking around," Sexton answered, smug pride written all over his face.

"Cool. Could you get anything about the gun?"

"Nah, it's gonna take ballistics a while to get any info on the cannon the perp used. No real clues as to what kinda gun in there."

"Aw, that's too bad," Dick said, hanging his head, trying to stifle a laugh. 'There's a blasted bullet on the floor by the window! And the entry wounds alone should tell you it's a .22, hardly a cannon. The spin markings on the bullet make it pretty easy to narrow down the list of possible murder weapons. Only two real possibilities, in fact. Most likely a Smith & Wesson 22S…semiautomatic, 11-shot capacity, 5.5" bull barrel, single action, internal hammer, .312" target trigger, partridge front sight, adjustable rear, weighs about 48 ounces. Could be a Ruger SP101, too, but the Ruger takes a lot of modification for a silencer. This floor's pretty crowded and no one reported hearing shots of any kind, so a silencer was definitely used.'

"Don't worry it, kid. I'll get it sorted. These kindsa amateur shoots're pretty easy. You guys can take off," Sexton said as he walked back into the room, reaching inside his jacket for his flask.

Dick and Amy walked down the stairs beside one another. Dick spoke as they reached the ground floor, safely out of Sexton's earshot, "Professional mob hit, right?"

"Yup. Good eyes, rookie," she replied.

"Now now, Sarge. Don't start flirting with me. Save it for the duty commander."

"Shut UP, Grayson," she exclaimed.

Dick sat at his desk in front of his home computer, reading through his pilfered copy of the coroner's report. The victim's name was John Westcott, a small-time numbers runner and street thug. His rap sheet revealed his status as a world class scumbag, listing everything from armed robbery to credit card fraud. What kept him out of prison was twofold; mob connections and his listing as a certified informant for the BHPD. He'd been supplying the force with information on the Infantino mob family for nearly two years. The DA was putting together a case, and whether Westcott knew it or not, he was going to be their star witness.

Dick came to the obvious conclusion that a few hundred dollars donated to a BHPD file clerk had supplied the Infantinos with Westcott's file and location, and the rest was history. 'So who's pulling triggers for Tino nowadays,' Dick silently asked himself. The Infantinos had been keeping things pretty low-key of late, no doubt because of the impending indictment and trial.

So it'd be easier, Dick figured, to track the gun. Most professional hitters use a weapon once, then ditch it. Finding it now would be nearly impossible, but finding the guy that sold it to the shooter wasn't. Infantino's boys were pretty exclusive when it came to buying firearms. Dick activated his video connection to Oracle and was greeted by her smiling face within seconds.

"Evening, FBW. If you need info, my price has doubled," Barbara Gordon said in jest.

Dick smiled brightly, waggling his eyebrows. "Extra-long striptease or double the whipped cream?"

"Mmmmmm, you pick. What's up?"

"I need a location and background on Benny Lassiter, arms dealer for Tommy Infantino's boys."

"No sweat. Give me a minute," she replied as she began typing.

"While you're at it, punch me up some flowers to be delivered to Larry Doherty, duty commander at my station house. Think of something sweet and sign it 'Amy.'"

Babs laughed as she typed. "You got it, short pants. Pimping your partner for a primo patrol, huh?"

Dick nodded his assent. "You know it. Nightwing's working a case in Avalon Hill, and it may come in handy for Officer FBW to stay on that beat for a couple days…"

"Yeah, and it'll drive Amy absolutely nuts."

"Well, then there's that," he replied.

"Okay, here we go. Benny Lassiter, 1427 Crestside Avenue, penthouse. He should be an easy pinch, but I doubt he's a rat," Babs said, getting down to business.

"Hrmmm, anything to work him on?"

"Let's see… He's been seeing an Elisa Sanchez for a few months now. She owns an S&M club in the Zee Moores. She's taken a couple collars for indecent exposure; apparently likes her evening escapades kinky and public," she replied with a smirk.

"I see what you're getting at. Caught twice, huh? I guess some people just aren't as sneaky as we are, gorgeous."

Babs laughed, her face blushing. "If that's all, I'd better go. I've got this sudden urge to go to confession…"

"G'night, Babs."

Benny Lassiter arrived home a tad past midnight. The message he'd gotten from Elisa through his service was extremely inviting, so he stopped for some champagne. As he entered the apartment, he saw rose petals on the floor, spread into a trail leading him down the hallway.

"Hot damn," he said, setting the champagne down. He followed eagerly.

The trail led him up the stairs to his rooftop balcony. As he swung the heavy door outward, a fist connected solidly with his nose, sending him flying down the first flight of steps, landing in an unconscious heap.

The pungent stench emanating from a capsule broken under his nose brought Benny out of his forced slumber. Looking down, he noticed with trepidation that he was being held in a standing position, leaning way back over the ledge of his 14-story apartment building. Looking forward, he was faced with the man holding him there, masked and muscled, looking none too pleased.

"Have a nice nap, Benny," Nightwing asked, using The Voice.

"D-d-don't drop me, man. W-whaddaya want?"

Nightwing leaned him back a bit further over the ledge. "I won't ask twice. You sold a Smith 22 handgun to someone connected to Tommy Infantino. Who was it?"

Benny looked down again, suddenly losing control of his bladder. This man was holding him with one arm, and the prospect of sudden death began to loom in Benny's mind. "I-I dunno! I swear!" He grabbed Nightwing's wrist with both hands, as hard as he could muster. "Y-you drop me, a-and y-you're coming with me."

Nightwing shrugged, the stoic features of his face unchanged. "I'm Nightwing, Benny. A superhero…Batman, Titans, and all that. I can fly."

"D-d-dammit, man. H-he'll kill me!"

"Newsflash, Lassiter. He killed a guy already. You tell me what I need to know and I'll make sure he's locked away. You don't tell me and you're a suicide waiting to happen. First step's a BITCH," he growled, loosening his grip on the cowering man.

"NO! N-no. His name's H-Hadley. Simon Hadley. Th-they call him The Silencer."

"How appropriate," Nightwing said, pulling Lassiter back to the safety of the rooftop. "Where can I find him?"

Lassiter quickly rifled through his wallet and pulled out a card. "Here's the address I took the gun to, just don't touch me no more."

Nightwing took the card and smiled. "Thanks, Benny. You're all heart." With that, he leapt from the rooftop.

"J-Jesus! He CAN fly."

Dick Grayson found himself again in front of his PC, working his way through files on Simon Hadley, though background info was proving scarce. 53-years-old, long rap sheet, no hard convictions. His longest stretch inside was four years in Blackgate on a weapons charge that violated his parole. Word on the street has him being a mob hitter for the last twenty-five years.

There was no doubt that he punched Westcott's ticket, and the reason no one spotted him on the street after the shooting? He was staying in the hotel right behind the Fulton. 'There's something very sinister about a killer so confident he won't get caught that he hangs his hat no more than a hundred yards from the crime scene,' Dick thought.

He had enough evidence to bring Hadley in for Westcott's murder, but the chances were that the BHPD cops that brought him in would use the evidence to recycle him; use their leverage as blackmail to make Hadley work for them. Dick had run across similar situations far too often in Bludhaven, and he'd be damned if Hadley would prosper from a murder on his beat.

'So I need a good cop to come through on this bust. A Bludhaven detective not on the take. Hmmmmm… You know, it's the rotten two hundred that spoil it for the other six…"

Captain Phillip Aswal Addad lives in Thrawn Park near the river, just west of Avalon Hill. The river runs between Island Point and Mealtide, emptying into the Narrows. His proximity to the Bludhaven waterfront always provides his apartment with the fresh smell of diluted sewage, which is why he stops for scented candles three times a week on his way home from the precinct. As he entered his humble abode, he heard proof that his neighbor had already arrived home. The telltale blare of 'The Dead Lizard Cult' emanating through his wall made him sigh resignedly.

He ferociously pounded on the wall four times, and the music stopped moments later. The 'little talk' he had with his neighbor about 'probable cause' for a 'search warrant' resulting in the discovery of 'herbal narcotics' had its intended effect, it seemed.

Addad walked into his kitchen and opened the large refrigerator door.

"Yesterday's Chinese or another night of macaroni and cheese," he asked himself.

"I'd go with the Chinese. Trust me, you won't want it tomorrow."

Addad slammed the refrigerator shut and drew his sidearm. The masked man standing behind him had his hands up in mock surrender. "Up against the wall and spread 'em!"

"We barely even know each other, Philly! Is it okay if I call you Philly?" Nightwing stood motionless, then suddenly reached out and seized Addad's gun in a quick, fluid motion that left the detective speechless. Nightwing removed the ammo magazine and cycled the bolt, ejecting the chambered round, then handed it back to Addad.

"What do you want?"

"I'm not here to fight, Detective. I have information for you on the Westcott murder. Just wanted to make sure it ended up in the hands of a cop that'd actually do the right thing," Nightwing said in a calm voice, offering a floppy disk to Addad.

He warily took it from the masked crimefighter. "And what makes you think I'm that cop?"

Nightwing shrugged. "On the list of honest detectives in your precinct, there's you and a bunch of dead guys. It was a tough choice, but seeing as how I hate going to the cemetery at night…"

Addad dismissed the comment and moved to his computer, placing the disk in the floppy drive. A couple of mouse clicks later, he was perusing the information Nightwing had gathered on the case.

"It's all there, Captain. Hadley pulled the trigger, Lassiter supplied the gun, Infantino gave the order. Hadley's location is verified, but I don't know how long he's sticking around. Might be best to move on it soon."

"And I'm just supposed to trust you," he asked, anger and doubt evident in his expression.

"Trust me or don't, just check it out. If it's on the level, you get the collar and another murderer is off the streets. If it's not, then what have you lost?"

Addad considered Nightwing's words for a moment. "Get out of my home."

Nightwing exited through a nearby window and headed home, confident that Addad would give his information the attention it deserved. 'And who knows? Maybe it'll be the start of a partnership of sorts between us. I could sure use the help,' Nightwing thought as he made his way back to his apartment.

The following day, Officer Dick Grayson paid close attention to the police scanner as he enjoyed another day cruising Avalon Hill with Amy. Addad had indeed followed up on his information, but the ensuing raid on Hadley's hotel room was ill timed, thanks to a bad tip from the hotel manager. Hadley wasn't there, and word was sure to get back to him that the police had been there. Finding him would now prove much more difficult.

The good news was that Hadley hadn't yet checked out, and the evidence they found in his room was substantial.

After his shift, dinner, and the sunset, Nightwing was again a fixture on Bludhaven's skyline. Heading out early, he stopped by Addad's office to do a little spying. He lowered himself from the roof to Addad's window, hanging upside down to peek inside. Seeing Addad inside, talking on the phone, Nightwing activated his audio amplifier and listened in.

As luck would have it, Addad was discussing the Westcott murder…

"Yeah, we're looking into that. I know, sir, but this thing has just gone multi-jurisdictional on us. The notebook we found lists names and dates of 48 murders, only a handful of which I recognize…Yes…No, sir…I've got the list right here, hang on," Addad said into the receiver as he picked up a small notebook.

"That's right, Philly…just a little more to your left. Lemme get a look at that list," Nightwing said, activating the magnifying lenses in his mask.

Looking over Addad's shoulder, Nightwing could only make out the first eleven names on the list and began committing them to memory:

05/27/72 – Roger Maitland

08/14/72 – Charlene Edwards

01/26/73 – Freddie Baxter

06/17/73 – Amanda Smith

10/08/73 – Thomas Wayne

10/08/73 – Martha Wayne

02/04/74 – Josh Hill

08/30/74 – Orlando Quintaro

01/06/75 – Henry Forsythe

06/18/75 – Logan Roberts

12/21/75 – Michael Osborne

"…no…," Nightwing whispered in disbelief. And then something occurred that had never happened to him before.

For no physical reason, Nightwing lost his hold on his line and fell.


	2. Consequences

46 Days Later 

Donna Troy fell asleep to the sound of rain falling against her bedroom windows. The previous few weeks had been very trying on her resolve, having assumed co-leadership of the Titans with Jesse Quick when Nightwing took an extended leave of absence for personal reasons. The Titans were very busy during that time, reminding Donna how difficult leading the team could be, even with help. It was the kind of work that left one proud and satisfied, but she had to admit that she was counting the days until Dick's return to the team.

He'd left under a cloud of mystery. Seeming exhausted and distraught, he'd told her of his decision privately, counting on her to tell the others. She learned a few days later, while trying to get in touch with him for some old records, that he had also taken leave of the Bludhaven Police Department. When she finally caught up with him, having had to go to Bludhaven to do so, he said he was working a case that required the bulk of his time. He offered no further information, and she chose not to push for more. That was the last time she'd seen him. It had been over a month.

There were more than a few times during that period that her concern compelled her to try to contact him, failing with each attempt. Donna even reached out to Robin and Oracle, who both expressed similar concerns and also hadn't seen or heard from him in quite a while. She called a Titans meeting to discuss the situation, and they decided to give him another week to respond to their messages and e-mails before launching a search that might interfere with his work.

This fitful night of sleep would be her first long rest in weeks, but it wasn't meant to be. She sat bolt upright in bed, jarred from her slumber by a loud noise from her balcony. Donna pulled on her robe and turned on the lights, stepping outside the balcony door to investigate. There, huddled into a ball, legs hugged to his chest, was Nightwing, her oldest and closest friend.

He was shivering, dressed in his uniform except for the mask, staring off into the evening sky. Looking closely at his face, she couldn't make out any sign of emotion or injury. His expression was passive and empty. Were it not for the shaking brought on by the weather, he would appear nearly catatonic.

Donna moved quickly to his side and knelt beside him, taking his hand in hers. "Dick? Dick, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

He turned to look at her, as if just realizing that she was there, and she saw his eyes struggle to focus. "D-Donna? I-I drove him to it, Donna…I killed him. I was right there, a-and I killed him."

She pulled him into her chest, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Let's get you inside, honey. Okay?" He didn't answer, but raised no protest when she helped him up and ushered him into her bedroom. Donna sat him on the chair beside her bed, left for the bathroom, and returned carrying two towels.

She was terrified for him when she returned to his side. He was staring off into nothingness again. Seeing him for the first time in the light, she was a bit taken aback by his appearance. He was clean shaven and responsive, but she guessed that he lost about twenty pounds since she'd seen him last, which is a dangerous amount for someone of his build, with virtually no fat to burn. His cheeks were drawn and his face appeared gaunt and pale.

Donna began to dry him off, pressing a towel repeatedly against his hair, face, and neck. She removed his gauntlets expecting to see the telltale scars of battle on his hands and knuckles, but found none. She inserted fingers of both hands into the neckline of his costume and tore it effortlessly to his waist, then removed it like a jacket. She wrapped a large, dry towel around him and then sat across from him on her bed.

"Dick? Talk to me. Tell me what happened."

He looked at her in surprise again. "My fault, Donna. I k-killed him."

Donna met his eyes with a pained look of compassion, tears now getting the best of her. "Killed who, Dick? Please tell me what's wrong. You're scaring me."

He started to answer her, but seemed at a loss for words, and he hunched over, appearing to give into his despair.

"Should I call Bruce? Barbara? Tell me how I can help, Dick."

Dick tried to raise his head to look at her, but couldn't. "N-no. No! Can't face them…can't…never again," he said.

Donna realized that he was very much in shock. Whatever happened to him had pushed him over an emotional precipice, and he was obviously finding it impossible to cope. She quickly moved again to the bathroom, returning seconds later with something wrapped in a washcloth. She set the cloth on her nightstand and knelt in front of him, pulling him into an embrace.

Dick leaned into her, seeming in search of physical support than comfort. His skin was cold to the touch, and Donna began to wonder just how long he'd been outside. Within a couple of long minutes, Dick gave in to his exhaustion (or was it despair?) and started to relax. His breathing slowed and the shivering began to subside. Donna helped him to her bed, then removed the remainder of his uniform. She took a syringe from the washcloth and gave Dick a sedative to make sure he slept through the night. He sat up when she removed the needle from his arm, realizing what she had done.

"No…can't." He looked around wildly, his eyes finally resting on the notepad resting by the lamp at her bedside. He picked it up slowly, the sedative starting to take affect. Removing the pen from its holder, he struggled to write something down before slumping back against the pillows, unconscious.

Donna made no effort to interfere, desperately hoping that he'd write something that would help her determine the cause of his pain. She climbed into the bed beside him and removed the notepad from his hand. His note read, "Hadley. 66524."

She lay there beside him for a while, her fragile heart broken from bearing witness to his devastation. Rising and wiping tears from her eyes, she moved to her kitchen and picked up the phone.

"Garth? It's Donna. Listen, Dick's in trouble and I really need your help."

The Atlantean's voice teemed with concern. "Is he all right?"

This is why she called Garth first. Garth would listen to what she was telling him and respond in kind, with his usual sense of compassion and tact. The others, Wally and Roy especially, would react rashly, eager for explanation, action, and retribution, and she could offer them none. "He seems okay, but he's really distraught. It has something to do with the case he's working on. I'm really worried for him."

"Do you want me to come over, so you're not alone while he sleeps?"

"No, but thanks, Garth. I need you to get in touch with Roy, Wally, and Vic, but not on the Titans' priority channel," Donna explained.

"I understand. We'll keep it in the family, as it were. Consider it done, Donna. Roy is here at the Tower and I have Wally's number. I think he can get in touch with Vic. I assume we'll meet at your apartment. What time?"

"Around eight if they can. Thanks so much, Garth. I feel better just hearing your voice. I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Count on it," he said, pausing. "Donna, are YOU okay?"

Donna smiled. Though he'd never spent much time with any of the Titans groups due to circumstance, Garth formed deep, lasting bonds with his friends. Aside from Dick, she wasn't sure there was anyone that understood her better. "I am now, Garth. Thanks for asking."

"Okay. See you in the morning," he replied as he hung up.

Donna woke at Dick's bedside to a knock at her door. Getting up, she placed the back of her hand against Dick's forehead, relieved that his fever had broken. She then moved silently to answer her apartment door. There stood Garth, Wally, Roy, and Vic, known to the world at large as Tempest, Flash, Arsenal, and Cyborg, all current and former Titans.

Garth stepped in to give Donna a brief hug as the men entered her apartment. "How is he?"

"He's resting now, guys. I think he'll be okay, but whatever happened to him last night…whatever it is he's been working on these past weeks…has really hit him hard."

Wally ran his hand through his hair, his characteristic impatience getting the best of him. "Maybe you'd better bring us up to speed, Donna. If Dick's in trouble over a case, we need to get moving while the trail's hot."

Donna agreed, motioning to her friends to take a seat. She recounted what she knew about the situation, starting with Dick's leave from the Titans, her repeated attempts to contact him, and finally with his appearance the night before, his condition, and the shocking things he'd said. She also showed them the note he'd written before falling asleep…"Hadley. 66524."

They passed the note around. "The name doesn't ring any bells, but this is prolly one'a Dick's case numbers, Wondy," Vic said.

Roy nodded. "That sounds right. So I guess we should head over to his place, see what we can dig up, huh?"

"I'm all for that plan. Let's get moving," Wally said, already heading toward the door.

"I think it would be best if I stayed here with Donna and Dick," Garth said. "We don't want my appearance to arouse any suspicion from Dick's acquaintances in Bludhaven."

"And be discreet, boys. Especially you, Wally. Dick Grayson isn't supposed to know The Flash," Donna added with a wink.

"Hey, what about me? I'm famous, too," Roy argued.

Vic laughed. "Stuff it, Archer. Let's go, you're driving."

"Oh, sure. I'm the chauffeur for the famous guys now, right? Wally's driving, and I'm riding in the back…"

Donna smiled as the guys made their way out the door and down the hall, then turned her attention back to Garth.

"Can I see him," he asked, a look of hopeful concern on his face.

"Sure, he might even be awake by now. The sedative I gave him should have worn off."

Garth made his way into the room to find Dick awake, sitting up in bed, staring out the window. "Good morning, Dick."

Dick offered no response.

"Donna says you're looking better than last night. I hope you don't mind her calling us here…"

Dick looked over at him. "Us?"

"Me, Wally, Roy, Vic…"

Dick shrugged slightly. "I appreciate the thought, but I don't see that there's anything you guys can do. What's done is done."

"Will you tell us exactly what has been done?"

Dick was silent for a long moment. "Have you ever done something so wrong, ruined something so important, that you knew you'd lost your family forever? What I did…what I didn't do…I can't take those things back."

Garth eyed him sadly. "Whatever has happened to make you feel that way, please know that there's nothing you could have done to lose our friendship. You are my brother, and WE are your family. That will not change."

"Thanks, Garth. I guess that's why I'm here," Dick replied, failing to force a smile.

"I'll leave you to rest. Just remember that, as you say, what's done is done. All one can do is their best to set it right. Donna and I are here if you need anything," Garth stated as he made his way out of the room.

Dick waited for him to leave, then slowly got out of bed. His entire body was sore, most certainly due to his lack of nourishment and severe emotional state the night before. He pulled on his uniform, noting with some remorse that Donna had all but destroyed a good portion of it. He moved out onto Donna's balcony and dove off, waiting as long as he could to launch his grapnel to avoid alerting Donna and Garth.

"All one can do is their best to set it right. Damn right, Garth," Nightwing said to himself as he moved across the rooftops of Manhattan. "Damn right…"

Vic Stone, Wally West, and Roy Harper stood on the fire escape outside Dick's apartment, trying their best to go unnoticed.

"The window's locked," Wally said, frustrated.

Vic shrugged. "Open it, Harper."

Roy looked at them with an exasperated expression on his face. "How the hell am I supposed to open it?"

"What, you mean to tell me you don't have tools for this kinda thing," Wally asked.

"Do I have a bat on my chest? Why don't you just vibrate through it and unlock it from the inside?"

"Because it'll explode, moron. You guys without powers are supposed to have lockpicks and stuff tucked away in your uniform somewhere," Wally replied.

Roy sighed, his anger getting the best of him. "Do you see a uniform on me? We're incognito, remember?" He started emptying his pockets. "I've got a comb, 47 cents in change, some lint, and a couple condoms. Unless you're MacGyver, I don't think this stuff'll be useful."

Vic watched his friends amusedly. Oh, how he missed hanging out with the Titans. "Actually, that stuff'll work, Harper. Take it from a guy who grew up in Hell's Kitchen. Close the change in your left fist, and put the rest'a that crap away."

Roy looked at Vic curiously, but complied, dumping the change into his left hand and closing it into a fist. "Okay, now what?"

Vic grabbed Roy by the wrist and shoved his fist through the windowpane, shattering it. "Now put the change in that cup on Dick's desk…we'll start a collection for a new window."

Wally stifled his laughter as Roy looked at Vic with astonished ire. "Jesus, Vic! What if someone heard that? And you could'a cut me!"

Vic slapped him on the back as he reached inside, unlocked the window, and hoisted it open. "Relax, bowboy. Nobody's gonna come running in this neighborhood, and you're not a lefty, so no harm done. C'mon," he said as he climbed through the window.

Wally and Roy followed, although Roy did so with a show of annoyance. Wally crossed the room and opened the bookshelf/door that separates Dick's apartment from that of the fictitious Dr. Fledermaus. "His computer's in here, Vic," he said, motioning the larger man through.

Vic took a seat at the computer terminal and waited for it to boot, with Wally and Roy standing behind him.

"Man, are you gonna do that oozing thing where you plug your fingers into the computer," Roy asked.

"Why, does it freak you out?"

Roy nodded. "Well yeah. Peoples' fingers aren't supposed to turn gold and plug into computers."

"This from the guy who had a kid with a woman that keeps her fingernails laced with lethal poison," Wally said.

"Hey, it's kinkier that way. Adds a sense of danger," Roy replied with a wink.

Vic cleared his throat. "ANYWAY…No, Harper. I'm not gonna ooze."

Wally was perplexed. "C'mon, we need this info, Vic. Roy can go in the next room and shoot at rats if it bothers him so much."

"Yeah, don't mind me. How else're we gonna get what we need?"

Vic shrugged. "Figgered I'd use the keyboard, maybe click the mouse a few times." Vic started his search as Wally chuckled affably. Within moments, Vic was hacking his way into Nightwing's case files, finally displaying the long list of numbered directories.

"Is there a 66524? That's what Dick wrote down," Wally said.

"Yup," Vic answered and he opened the 66524 directory. Inside were about 50 files, one labeled main.doc and the rest numbered sequentially. He opened main.doc and began summarizing the contents for his friends. "Okay, we've got a Simon Hadley as the case target. That matches the 'Hadley' name on Dick's note. Says here he's a mob hitter that Dick caught on to after he popped a guy named Westcott. The file refers to a notebook found in a police raid that this Hadley idiot kept a hit list in. 48 names. That must be what these other files are."

Roy laughed. "What a moron! I know if I was a killer, I'd walk around with a list of all the people I killed…"

"Yeah, pretty stupid. But maybe he's just that good, Roy. Not afraid of getting caught," Wally added.

Vic was perusing the other files while they talked. "Yup, these files are each researched hits from the past. They go pretty far back. Doesn't make sense."

"Whaddaya mean? Dick's a detective; it's kinda what he does," Roy said.

"Yeah, but why bother? He's got enough on the Westcott hit to put the guy away, and the cops're bound to follow up on at least a few of these others. Shouldn't be too hard to put a case together without Dick spending all this time on it," Vic answered.

"The cops around here are crooked, though. He probably has to be pretty thorough just to get a conviction around here," Wally added.

Roy shook his head. "Still, I don't see Dick taking weeks off from the Titans and the PD to go this far with a mob goon. If he…"

Vic interrupted, "Hang on. This last file is ten times the size of the others, and it's locked. Gimme a minute." His fingers flew across the keyboard as Roy and Wally looked on. Moments later, "Got it. It's not a file; it's a ghost directory. Look at all the stuff in here," Vic exclaimed, pointing to multiple text, audio, video, and graphics files. He double-clicked to open the largest text file, and an eerie silence descended upon the room as they read:

Date: October 8, 1973

Location: Crime Alley, Gotham City

Time: 10:07pm

Victim(s): Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne…

"N-no way," Roy whispered, choking on his words.

"Man, what the hell did Robbie stumble onto here," Vic asked, astonished.

Wally leaned in and grabbed the mouse, quickly reading the entire document, then did the same with each additional text file in the ghost directory. "Guys, he's got it. ALL of it. He can put Hadley at the scene, has a breakdown of events, timetables, even a confession from the guy Hadley fenced the stuff to. And look here," he said, pointing to a particular passage in one of the files. "Through working the other early murders, he found out that Hadley buried a lot of the evidence he couldn't sell in a flower bed outside the apartment building he lived in back then. Dick found Thomas Wayne's wallet, complete with ID."

"Guys, what're we supposed to do with this? I mean, we came here with good intentions and all, but I'm not sure Dick would want us reading this," Roy stated.

"I'm with you on that, archer. But we still don't know what's got Dick so rattled. This is shock enough, but Donna said that Dick was afraid he'd killed someone. We all know what that prolly means, but we can't stop until we know for sure."

Wally nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Look, this is Donna's play. We shouldn't make any decisions on what to do until we bring her in on it. You guys should head back to her place. I'm gonna dig around here and see if I can't find that notebook and whatever else Dick may have on the guy, then head over to the PD and find out exactly what happened last night."

"Sounds like a plan, fleetfeet. Let us know if ya need anything," Vic replied as his hand came alive and reached out to Dick's PC, merging his mind with its contents. "I'll take all this info with us, just in case."

He and Roy left through the window, leaving The Flash to his task.

Donna stared blankly at the collected information and evidence in front of her. Wally returned not long after Roy and Vic, bringing with him Hadley's notebook and Thomas Wayne's wallet, both found hidden in Dick's apartment, as well as a police report stemming from an incident in Bludhaven the night before.

Garth's reaction was similar, though not as silent. "This Simon Hadley…he's dead?"

"Yeah, found in an alley, a pretty severe karate-style beating. The coroner's report isn't in yet, but the picture I saw made it pretty clear. Hadley's neck was broken," Wally responded.

Donna found her voice, "We're not supposed to believe that Dick did this, are we? Even knowing what this man had done, I don't think Dick would kill him. Look at all this work he did. Why bother?"

"I dunno, Wondy. Doesn't sound like Dick t'me either. But you could argue that this is Batboy's justification," Vic said, holding up some of the papers they'd printed from Dick's files. "It's a case against Hadley, but it makes for a good murder defense for the guy that scragged him, too."

Roy shook his head pointedly as he rose from the couch. "No way, Vic. That makes it even worse…premeditated. Not Dick. There's no way Dick would do that!"

"Take it easy, Harper. I'm not sayin' that's what I believe. I'm just pointing out the obvious, tossing it out there, y'know? It's what Dick would be doing if it was one'a us."

"This accomplishes nothing," Garth stated. "What Dick did or did not do is immaterial at the moment. His whereabouts and current state of mind should be our primary concerns. Once we've found him, we can worry about what to do to help him."

"Yeah, Garth, but where do we go from here? None of us is dumb enough to think we'll find him if he doesn't want to be found," Wally said.

"I've been thinking the same thing, Wally," Donna replied sadly. "I don't think we have any choice but to get others involved; people who'd have a better chance of reaching him and talking to him about this…"

Roy groaned, putting his face in his hands. "Aw, man. There's gotta be something else we can do. I don't like talking to Batman at all, but the thought of telling him THIS? You know how mad Garth gets when we eat tuna fish sandwiches in front of him? It's like that, only it's Batman, and the sandwiches are his parents."

"You've got a real gift for analogies, Harper," Vic said, eyes rolling.

"Sue me."

"Roy's got a point, though. 'Hiya, Bruce. Dick found the guy that murdered your parents, and he told Donna he killed him.' I don't think that's gonna go over well," Wally added.

"I know, but what else can we do? Dick told Garth that he'd lost his family forever because of what he's done. We have to get them involved, if only to prove to Dick that he hasn't lost them," Donna stated.

Wally looked at her with a pained expression. "It won't be easy, Donna. Bruce has been more distant and standoffish since the Gotham lockout, if you can imagine that. I don't know that he'll even listen to us."

"Then we'll have to get someone that he WILL listen to…"


	3. Painful Encounters

Barbara Gordon sat at her workstation doing research for one of Black Canary's overseas missions. She was tired, having slept only eight hours in the past several days. The cause of her lack of rest was usually her work. Being the source of information for the lion's share of Earth's hero community is often an all-day affair, but her troubles recently were far more personal.

The absence of Dick Grayson from her life of late was impacting every facet of her existence. They'd become so close in the months since they allowed their relationship to finally turn romantic. One of the hardest parts of his unexplained absence was simply that it was unexplained. Barbara didn't think there was anything in the world that he wouldn't share with her, but that obviously wasn't the case. Anger and confusion came with that realization, and she'd become very unsure of the extent of their commitment as a result.

In speaking about it with others, even her father, Barbara hadn't felt able to express how deeply she'd come to feel for Dick. Referring to him as her "boyfriend" somehow didn't seem to sufficiently convey her feelings. The boyfriend/girlfriend terminology, in her mind, just doesn't fit the relationship she thought they had. A boyfriend, she thought, is someone you don't fully know. The relationship is usually new and unexplored, and that certainly wasn't the case with her and Dick. She knows everything about him, perhaps moreso than anyone else.

At least she thought she did.

Discussions with Tim and Dinah, who were fully aware of Dick's dual life, didn't prove any more helpful. They would tell her to "hang in there," and try to reassure her that Dick would get in touch when he was able. That was what bothered her most. He WAS able. All of her tracking equipment told her that Dick was alive and well in Bludhaven, though it seemed he'd taken a trip into Manhattan the night before. She knew he was okay, and HE knew that she'd be aware of his status. For some reason, he just wasn't calling.

Perhaps he just didn't care as much as she thought he did.

Barbara was brought out of her reverie by a knock on her door. She turned on the surveillance monitor that displayed the small area outside her front door. The man standing there seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place him.

She activated her intercom. "Can I help you?"

The man looked directly into the lens of the hidden camera, which unnerved Barbara to no end. His deep voice seemed casual as he replied, "Yeah. Name's Vic Stone. I'm a friend of Dick's."

Victor Stone, Cyborg of the Titans. They had met once in passing a few years earlier at a birthday party the Titans threw for Dick in New York. And therein lies the problem. She was Batgirl then, and Vic Stone wasn't supposed to know Barbara Gordon. Dick would have told her if he'd decided to tell his friends more about her.

Then there's the fact that Vic Stone, consciously or not, almost destroyed the Earth. Under different circumstances she might not trust the man, but one simple fact changed that…

Dick trusts him.

Barbara couldn't count the number of times Dick told her stories from his Titans days. Since it was the one time in his life when he and Barbara weren't in almost constant contact, he'd go on and on about his friends and their adventures. She'd met the original group, and was thus familiar with Roy Harper, Garth, Donna Troy, and Wally West. She only really knew Vic by extension, but through Dick's stories she knew that he'd become, along with Joe Wilson, one of Dick's closest and most trusted friends.

Loving Dick, trusting Dick, made her risky decision that much easier. Barbara wheeled over and opened the door, inviting the large man inside.

Vic allowed himself a small smile, knowing the open door was a trusting gesture for her. "Hi. Sorry to drop by without calling, but it's kinda urgent."

Barbara remained careful with her words. "This is about Dick?"

"Yeah, it's about Dick. And to help relax you, it's also about Nightwing, Bruce, Batman…and Oracle, if she'll help," Vic replied with a grin.

Barbara let her guard down, but narrowed her eyes. "He told you. I'll kill him."

Vic laughed and shook his head. "Dick didn't tell me about Oracle. I don't think he's told anyone. Wally's prolly figgered it out, and maybe Donna, but he didn't hafta tell me."

"How then?"

Vic smiled again as he briefly brought the Omegadrome to bear, turning his hands to a spectacular glowing gold, and then back again. "Oracle's hacked into my systems at Titans Tower on more than one occasion. She hides her tracks impossibly well, but I was still able to track her IP almost instantly. Being Cyborg has its advantages these days," he explained.

Barbara couldn't quite hide her smile. "I'll bet," she said, rubbing her wrists. "I could sure use a talent like yours. Carpal tunnel's not a problem for you…"

"Nope, not anymore."

Barbara's expression turned serious. "Is he okay?"

"He was fine last we saw him, which was this morning. He's been working real hard on a case, hasn't been sleeping, lost weight…but he's not hurt," Vic responded.

"Where has he been, and what's this case he's working on? He's got a lot of people worried sick!"

Vic moved over to her Oracle workstation and "plugged" himself into one of her computers. The main monitor showed the transfer of information. When he finished the transfer, he brought up a document on the screen and motioned Barbara forward.

"This'll explain it all…"

"Dear Lord!"

Alfred Pennyworth sat at the desk in his room at Brentwood Academy, a collection of papers in one hand, his head cradled in the other. Wally West stood behind him, giving his shoulder a caring squeeze.

"I'm sorry, Alfred. If the circumstances were different, I wouldn't have sprung it on you like this. There's just no time…" Wally stopped speaking as he saw Alfred raise his head. He could swear that Alfred had aged five years since his arrival a few minutes earlier.

"Put your mind at ease, Master West. Though this news comes as a shock, you are quite right. Now is not the time to weigh this new information. Where is Master Richard?"

Wally gave an ashamed shrug. "We don't know. That's part of why I'm here. We need to find him, and I'm sure you know how hard that can be."

Alfred nodded sadly, still reeling from the news he just received. "Alas, I do. All of the young men in my charge have become quite adept at the vanishing arts. I may be of some assistance in locating him, though I'm fairly certain Master Dick will remain hidden until he wishes to be found."

"I know, Alfred. And that's REALLY why I'm here. We know who can find him. It's just that we're pretty sure we'll need you to get him to do it."

Alfred looked at Wally with a quizzical expression. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."

Wally locked eyes with the older man. "We need Bruce to find Dick, and there's no way we can get Bruce to look for him unless we tell him the truth. Dick doesn't think he can ever face you guys again because of this, and I'm not sure anyone but Bruce can convince him otherwise."

Alfred stood slowly, rising to his full height. "I see. So you would like me to deliver this news to Master Bruce."

"Actually, no. We figured that Bruce isn't going to handle this well, no matter who tells him, and that wouldn't be fair to you. We've sent someone to tell Bruce. Here's what we need from you…"

Donna Troy was on her fourth pass of the Gotham City skyline, in search of a man that was, by all accounts, impossible to find in the shadows of his hometown. She landed on a nearby rooftop to get her bearings for Plan B. Having visited Gotham quite frequently when she and Dick were younger, Donna was familiar with his old patrol route. By following it, she hoped she'd either run into Batman or vice versa. She just didn't know how long it would take.

"What are you doing here, Troia?" 

The deep, ominous voice from behind her startled Donna beyond words. She nearly leapt out of her skin as she turned to face the Dark Knight.

"Hera, how do you DO that?"

Batman did not respond, and made it obvious that he was waiting for an answer to his question.

"I…I need you to come with me. It's important…it's about Nightwing," Donna said, more than a little flustered.

Batman's expression remained unchanged. "Has he been injured?"

"Well, no. He's not hurt, but he IS in trouble. Please come with me. I need to show you some personal files, and we really shouldn't talk about this here."

"If this is a personal matter, it can wait until morning. I can't abandon my responsibilities here without explanation," Batman replied, his impatient demeanor letting her know her presence was an unwelcome disturbance.

Donna's eyes narrowed, the tone of the verbal exchange igniting an inner fire of rage. She composed herself, removed a minidisc from her belt, and offered it to Batman. "If you CAN'T come with me, then at least look at this in the car."

The Dark Knight reached out to take the disk, and just as he did, Troia seized him by the wrist, pulling him off balance. She then grabbed him by the tunic, lifted him off the ground, and pinned him to the side of the building's tall brick chimney. Though surprised, Batman offered no resistance.

"Listen to me! Nightwing is in trouble. He NEEDS you. You WILL come with me back to your cave, even if I have to drag you against your will," she spat, easing him to the ground as she finished her short tirade. She did not release her grip on his tunic, however.

Batman's face remained impassive. "Don't overestimate your abilities, Miss Troy. I'll go. The car will meet us on the street," he said as he removed himself from her grasp and leapt from the rooftop.

Troia descended to street level under her own power, not letting the Batman out of her sight. When the Batmobile pulled up beside the two heroes, they climbed in and sped off.

The unlikely pair rode back to the Batcave in complete silence, but the unspoken battle of wills was deafening. Twenty minutes later, Batman pulled the car to a stop in the parking bay of the Batcave. They both got out and made their way to the Batcomputer.

Troia handed him the minidisc. Batman took it and inserted it into the computer, bringing up a short list of files.

"Cyborg summarized the contents as best he could without compromising the data," Donna said.

"We could have done this is the car," Batman replied coldly.

"Trust me. You need to see this in private. It's very personal, and we didn't want to give it to you in an area that wasn't secure."

Batman waved his hand, as if dismissing her comment. "I'll worry about my security. In the future…"

Donna cut him off, pointing at the screen. "Read the damn file, Batman! READ IT!"

The Dark Knight sat down at his workstation and began reading the first file, silenced more by the fire in Troia's eyes than the volume of her words.

Having read the files a dozen times herself, Donna instead watched Batman intently. She watched his expression as he put together the clues while he read. It amazed her how much he reminded her of Dick at that moment, the way they both tune out the world around them as they pour over the details of an investigation. His expression changed slightly to one she assumed displayed pride in Dick's work and documentation of the case.

Then his eyes moved to the hit list.

Batman removed his cowl in quick, sweeping motion, as if to make sure its lenses weren't making him see things. Donna watched Bruce Wayne's eyes go wide, even as his jaw dropped. Without saying a word, Donna pointed to the Wayne file. Bruce opened it and kept reading.

"It's all there, Bruce. Every angle is covered," she said quietly.

He looked at her, his eyes betraying the shock that had just seized control of his soul. "Where is he?"

Donna shook her head sadly. "We don't know. We just found the files this afternoon. Dick's been out of contact for weeks, and last night he showed up at my apartment. He was so tired and pale, Bruce, and he couldn't stop crying."

"Why?"

Donna hesitated before responding. "Read the last file," she said, pointing to the police report from the previous evening's events in Bludhaven.

Bruce opened the file, a look of rage enveloping his strong features.

"No…NO!" Faster than Donna's eyes could follow, Bruce's hand smashed the computer screen in front of him. He quickly replaced his cowl and stormed across the cave in the direction of the Batmobile.

Donna followed after him. "Where are you going?"

"To find Nightwing…"

'Thank Hera,' she thought to herself, coming to a halt.

"…and when I do, he'll answer for his actions!"

The accusing tone of the Dark Knight's voice made Donna's blood run cold. "WHAT? You can't be serious," she exclaimed as she reached out to stop him. "Stop, please…"

The Batman grabbed her wrist as she approached and pulled her in close to him, seizing her by her upper arms. She started to protest, but his words silenced her. "He had no right to keep this from me. I'm going to leave now, and you're NOT going to stop me."

"Bruce Wayne! Unhand that young lady at once!"

Bruce's head turned quickly in the direction of the voice. Alfred Pennyworth descended the Cave staircase is his usual well-postured manner, though the angry scowl on his face teemed with disdain. Bruce looked at him in defiance, but he subconsciously and instantly obeyed, releasing his hold on Donna. He looked at his former valet for a long moment before turning on his heel and heading once again to the Batmobile.

"Don't try to follow," he said quietly to Donna.

"Stop this madness! Where do you think you're going, Master Bruce," Alfred asked as he moved to close the space between him and his one-time charge.

Bruce stopped at the door of the Batmobile and allowed Alfred to approach. "I'm going to find Dick."

"And then?"

"And then I'll bring him back, whether he wants to come or not," Bruce replied coldly.

Alfred stepped closer to Bruce. "You'll do no such thing! The young master deserves none of your misguided ire."

"He kept this from me, Alfred! He never should have pursued this case; he knew it was MINE to solve," Bruce answered angrily. He removed his cowl once again; another subconscious act. He'd always thought it disrespectful to address Alfred under the guise of the Bat, especially over matters so personal.

"Your egocentric behavior knows no bounds," Alfred said rather forcefully in reply.

Bruce paused a moment, balling his hands into tight fists in an effort to control his anger, yet proved unable to mask the contempt in his voice. "This isn't about me, Alfred. This is about Dick, and the man he probably killed."

*SLAP!*

…

Bruce brought his hand to his cheek, feeling his skin grow warm from the impact. He expected to see shock or regret on Alfred's face, but bitterness was all it revealed.

Alfred cradled his right hand with his left, massaging away the stinging vibration caused by the blow. He started to raise his voice in anger, but paused, speaking instead in steady, even tones. "How dare you speak such nonsense about your son! That young man has lived and breathed for you since the day we brought him to your parents' estate. He has done everything you've ever asked of him and more. The number of times he has saved your life is inconsequential, but you would NOT be standing here today if he hadn't saved your soul…no matter how dark and cold it has become in the years since.

"And you have the audacity to stand there in judgement of the better man, whose only crime this day was attempting to protect his father from the worst part of himself. In return, you would accuse him of murder."

Alfred took Bruce by the wrist and guided him back to the computer. "Look at it," he said, pointing at the screen. "Weeks of tireless work, obsessed with every minute detail."

"He could have come to me," Bruce said quietly.

"He didn't have to come to you, Master Bruce. He *became* you. He took leaves from his department and Titans teammates. He barely slept. Master Dick became the embodiment of relentless determination. And he did this to stop you from slipping even further away from the man you once were."

Alfred gestured toward the screen forlornly. "I cried when young Master West presented me with these documents. Not for your parents, who may finally rest in peace. Not for you, who may now find reason to dispose of your many personal demons. I cried for the young man who put himself through this horrific obsession that goes so against his nature…against everything we sought to shield him from as a child. I cried for Master Richard."

"Alfred…" Bruce began, an apologetic expression growing on his pained countenance.

Alfred raised his hand to silence the younger man. "Now you will don that godforsaken cowl and seek out the young master. And when you find him, you will reach out to him with friendship and gratitude. If you do not…if you cause the lad even one more ounce of heartache, I shall never again step foot in this house."

Bruce watched as Alfred turned and made his way back up the Cave stairs, Donna following after him. He waited until they faded from view and the sounds of their footsteps no longer found his ears.

Then he raised his cowl and made his exit, directing the Batmobile toward Bludhaven at top speed.


	4. Redemption

Donnie Zimmerman had been a criminal pretty much since he was a kid. Passing bad checks, theft, armed robbery, grand theft auto, assault, carrying and dealing drugs; everything you'd expect from a guy with no backbone raised in Bludhaven. Never spent even an hour in prison, so there was never any incentive to go straight. Donnie never appreciated anything, even Francine, the beautiful young women he'd married 6 years earlier after she became pregnant.  
  
Daisy Marie Zimmerman was a gorgeous baby girl, but fatherhood wouldn't change Donnie much, either. He graduated to drug dealing to support his family and his growing heroin habit. His nefarious lifestyle carried the family along for a couple of years, until late one October afternoon. Francine got off early from her shift at the diner, picked Daisy up from daycare, and came home to find Donnie passed out on the couch. She thought he was napping, and thought nothing of leaving their infant daughter in the family room with him for a minute while she changed.  
  
Just for a minute.  
  
Of course, Donnie wasn't asleep. He'd just done three lines and keeled over in a drugged stupor. Francine didn't see the baggie of brownish powder lying between the couch and the coffee table. Daisy did.  
  
Donnie still doesn't remember the drive to the hospital, and likely never will. He does remember the shame he felt carrying his beautiful little girl into the ER and reporting a massive drug overdose. He remembers the 3 weeks she spent on a ventilator in the PICU, and the two weeks after that, off the vent, still suffering from withdrawal before she was allowed to come home. It was the moment he lay Daisy down in her bedroom at home that Donnie realized he'd been sober for 38 days.  
  
And now it was 38 months sober. He gave himself one week to sell off his stash to pay off his supplier, and he'd been on the straight and narrow ever since. It took three years of struggling before he landed a good job at the Bludhaven morgue. He tried not to think of the irony in being a law- abiding employee of the city, tried not to feel guilty for living in a house paid for with drug money, and for never being caught.  
  
Donnie Zimmerman learned many hard lessons on his own, without ever being forced. His only encounters with the police had ended with back-alley payoffs. No one asked questions the day he almost poisoned his daughter to death, and he'd luckily never run into the likes of Batman or that creepy Nightwing guy that showed up in Bludhaven not so long ago...  
  
So imagine Donnie's surprise when he was quite literally enveloped by a bat- shaped shadow, thrown effortlessly to the ground, then lifted and pinned to a hard stone wall in the coroner's lab. He felt the pressure of sharp, cold steel to his throat as he peered into the shining white eyes of his assailant. Donnie heard that The Batman was the stuff of nightmares, but that was wrong...way wrong. Batman is the stuff of psychotic episodes, Donnie reasoned, because no sane mind could conceive of something this menacing and lethal.  
  
"Simon Hadley. You're going to retrieve Simon Hadley's body from the morgue and bring it here. You won't say a word to anyone. Do as I say and you won't be harmed," The Bat said in a chilling whisper. He then lowered the batarang from Donnie's throat and released him.  
  
Donnie nodded, spun on his heel, and walked from the room. He returned five minutes later, wheeling in a loaded gurney covered with a white sheet. Donnie then handed Batman a folder. "A copy of the coroner's report."  
  
"Thank you. Now go home."  
  
Donnie shook his head. "I got a wife and kid to support. Can't just walk off the job," he said as he took a step toward Batman. "Hit me. I can take it, and God knows I deserve it."  
  
And even though he expected it, Donnie Zimmerman never saw the punch coming. He would wake hours later with a broken jaw, a good excuse for his boss, and feeling as though he'd taken a small step toward atoning for his sins.  
  
Batman didn't give the man a second thought. On another night he may have protested or used less violent means to render the man unconscious. Not now. Not tonight.  
  
Batman checked the toe tag then removed the sheet from the body. He opened the coroner's report, which had not changed at all from the one Troia had given him earlier. He began to inspect the man's wounds methodically, from head to toe. It took him almost an hour to reach his conclusion.  
  
Hadley was killed by an expert martial artist. The blunt contact wounds were consistent with fists, feet, and blunt weapons. The rough estimate of the size of the fists and feet matched those of a man fitting Nightwing's build, and the weapons could very easily have been escrima sticks...Nightwing's current weapons of choice.  
  
Hadley was beaten severely before the killing blow was delivered, a sharp twist of the head that broke his neck. The technique used was one very familiar to Batman, and therefore equally familiar to his former protégé. All of the physical evidence led to one inevitable conclusion...  
  
Nightwing wasn't even remotely involved in the attack that killed Simon Hadley.  
  
To a layperson, the term "master martial artist" may refer to a supremely skilled combatant. In practice, however, a master is someone who has achieved a complete understanding of a particular form of combat. There are many thousands of people that fit that description. That number can be reduced when you factor in those that have mastered multiple forms of martial combat, and down to the select few that have perfected the use of most fighting disciplines.  
  
And then there are people like Nightwing. Nightwing has mastered countless forms of combat, honed them into a unique style all his own, and blends it with his natural physical and intellectual gifts to become something that quite simply defies description. There are perhaps a dozen people in the known world with that level of skill. So to Batman and Nightwing, a "master martial artist" is little more than an amateur combatant.  
  
The person that killed Hadley was a master of an obscure form of Aikido. Like Jujitsu and similar disciplines, it does not require a lot of movement. While Nightwing has mastered a laundry list of defensive disciplines, he never preferred them, and rarely, if ever, used them offensively. Nightwing is an acrobat, first and foremost. He always preferred the more aggressive and mobile arts, like Judo, Kung Fu, and Capoera. In short, even if Nightwing was capable of murder, this was not how his victim would appear afterwards.  
  
The assault was also exclusively frontal. The killer was always within the victim's forward line of sight. Also not Nightwing's style. The wound placement suggested Hadley's attacker kept coming forward while beating Hadley, forcing him backward, which brought Batman to the final fact that exonerated his former partner...  
  
There were very few defensive wounds on Hadley's hands and arms. His assailant beat him way beyond his ability to defend himself.  
  
No matter the situation, no matter the circumstances, no matter the degree of evil or the severity of the crime involved, Batman was certain that Nightwing could never viciously attack a defenseless, unarmed, and likely unconscious opponent. And he would never kill, not if there was even the slightest possibility of another option. He had the chance with Anthony Zucco, the man that killed his parents. Dick Grayson walked away then, and there was no reason to believe he wouldn't do the same now.  
  
Batman was absolutely certain that Nightwing didn't kill Simon Hadley...  
  
But at that moment, looking down at the man that killed a young Bruce Wayne's parents in that alley so many years before, Batman was equally certain that had the case been his to solve, Hadley would still be dead...and the blood would surely be on his hands.  
  
Alfred's words echoed in his mind, "...he did this to stop you from slipping even further away from the man you once were."  
  
And as The Dark Knight climbed through the laboratory window, he finally understood. And with that clarity of thought, his mission changed.  
  
  
  
  
  
Dick Grayson walked with a slight limp down Seaside Drive in the heart of downtown Bludhaven. As it was after 3am, most of the legitimate storefronts had been closed for quite a while, but a long row of bodegas, adult video stores, bars, and strip joints still teemed with life, only adding to the fetid stench of filth and corruption in the air.  
  
He saw his prey on the corner of Seaside and Twelfth Avenue, making no secret of the fact that they were open for business. Six members of the Ghost Dragons, all the drugs you want, first come, first serve.  
  
Dick sighed inwardly as he continued to close the distance between them. This little sect of the Dragons came into Bludhaven after the quake. A couple dozen in all, but these six controlled the drug trade along Seaside Strip. Bludhaven wasn't exactly hurting for gang activity of its own when Gotham was shut down, and Dick was prepared for the influx of new gangs and mob influences. But the Ghost Dragons were a headache he definitely didn't need. Indirectly linked to King Snake's organization, the Dragons were very dedicated, and a good portion of them were rather impressively trained as assassins. Long thorns in the sides of Batman and Robin, Nightwing hoped he'd be rid of their presence when Gotham reopened its borders. That obviously wasn't to be, and with everything else going on of late, he hadn't had a chance to shut them down. Nightwing didn't make them a priority.  
  
That proved to be a fatal mistake.  
  
The six gang members were very aware of his presence as he approached them, but didn't flinch. Dick cursed himself for that. His lack of attention to his health and physical appearance lately had an undesirable affect on the streets of Bludhaven. Having lost a bit too much weight, suffering still from malnutrition, unshaven for over a day, Dick Grayson looked like a junkie. Without his uniform and mask, he was just a potential customer for these pushers.  
  
As he came within about twenty feet of the Dragons, Dick broke into a sprint, heading straight for the guy with the backpack slung over his shoulder. Caught off guard by his sudden action, the Ghost Dragons were unable to prevent Dick from pulling the backpack free from the young man's grasp and making a mad dash toward the waterfront with their drug stash in tow.  
  
They gave chase immediately, shouting curses and threats at Dick in two languages as they ran. Dick allowed them to stay close as a few city blocks turned into a half mile and he reached the seaside piers. Were he actually trying to elude them, Dick would have taken the high ground. No one without a metagene could keep up with him on the rooftops. But Dick Grayson had something else in mind as he instead ran underneath the long row of piers that covered the industrial shoreline. The undersides of the piers were completely unlit. The total darkness wouldn't be much of a crutch for his pursuers, but there was only one man on Earth more at home than Nightwing in this degree of dank blackness.  
  
With a few quick movements in mid-stride, Dick Grayson made the change from thieving citizen to heroic wraith. The Dragons fell back on their training, slowing their pace as they heard the footfalls of their prey cease. They fanned out into a wide arc as they stalked forward, bringing the full ability of their senses to bare.  
  
"You can't run all night, coward. No one steals from us and fades away. Give it up and we'll kill you quick. Last night's thief wouldn't give it up. He died real slow."  
  
As they began to feel as though they'd lost their prey, the darkness around them suddenly grew eyes. There, only a few feet in front of them, emerged the telling glow of starlight lenses. They all stopped dead in their tracks in disbelief, and readied themselves for battle. But how could this man be so close and not disturb the breeze around them? How could one move so silently? And why didn't he seem to breathe?  
  
Nightwing stood stock still, letting the element of surprise slip from his grasp. The darkness was the only advantage he allowed himself. Six well trained gang assassins versus an exhausted and malnourished vigilante.  
  
Nightwing felt sorry for them.  
  
The Ghost Dragons moved to surround him, forcing him into action. He closed his eyes, fading once again into the blackness as he crouched quickly and spun, sweeping out with his right leg. He knocked two opponents to the ground then immediately sprang straight upward, catching a handhold on a wooden support beam above him. He hung there silently, listening to the controlled sounds of confusion below him.  
  
"He's moved away. Spread out," whispered one of the Dragons.  
  
And as soon as his mouth closed, strong arms grabbed him from behind, expertly closing his windpipe and quieting his ability to shout for help. Within a few seconds, Nightwing was easing the first Ghost Dragon to the ground, unconscious.  
  
"One down, who's next?" Nightwing said coldly. He then moved quickly away.  
  
Two Dragons moved to the location of their attacker's voice, finding only their fallen comrade. Nightwing was on them at once, closing the distance with four lightning-quick handsprings, and lashed out at each with a foot as he landed. Both blows landed squarely, allowing him to make quick work of his two opponents as he regained his balance.  
  
"That's three," he said, using The Voice.  
  
He knew the Dragons didn't have it in them to run. Their twisted sense of honor demanded they finish the battle, win or lose. His remaining opponents moved to confront him. Nightwing closed his eyes and unleashed his escrima sticks as the Ghost Dragons aligned and moved closer.  
  
The one in the middle spoke. "Ah, Nightwing. I've heard of you," he said as he stopped his approach, motioning for his friends to follow suit. "You've chosen an unwise battle, dark one. Dispatching three unworthy Dragons through trickery is one thing, but we three ARE worthy. Surrender now and leave us."  
  
Nightwing gave a quick nod and turned to walk away. Then, faster than the eye could follow, he spun and threw, catching the two silent Dragons full in the face with an escrima stick each. The verbose Dragon looked to each side of him, then back to Nightwing with an unmistakable look of fear. They were both out cold. Nightwing tossed him a pair of Batcuffs.  
  
"Put...those...on," he said flatly, once again using The Voice.  
  
A look of frustration and anger took hold of the young Dragon's countenance as he reluctantly complied with the order. He knelt on the ground in front of him, prepared to accept his fate.  
  
Nightwing moved forward and retrieved one of his escrima sticks, then stepped behind his last conscious enemy to fetch the other. The young Dragon began to rise to attack Nightwing, then thought better of it. Nightwing turned back to him and sheathed his escrima sticks. He quickly lowered his right arm, striking the young man with a backhand to the temple, knocking him out.  
  
"That was for even considering it," Nightwing said to the newly fallen form.  
  
"I take it these were the murderers from last night," came a deep voice from behind him.  
  
Nightwing turned and nodded to the shadows. "Yes." He bound the young men tightly with a decel line, then used his tie-wraps to cuff them together, wrist-to-ankle. "This'll hold them for a while."  
  
"I've contacted the BPD. They'll be here shortly. We should go."  
  
Nightwing followed his onetime mentor out from under the piers, then they both took to the sky, setting down on a nearby rooftop to await the authorities.  
  
A deafening silence hung between them for several long minutes.  
  
"I'm sorry, Bruce," Nightwing said quietly.  
  
Batman shifted his weight, and replied without meeting his son's gaze. "There's nothing to be sorry for. I was angry...at first. Very angry. Logical a reaction as it may have been, it was mostly due to the appearance of your involvement in Hadley's death. Once I found that you had nothing to do with it, I understood."  
  
Nightwing shook his head. "I had everything to do with it, Bruce. I drove him underground. Took away any chance he had to get out of Bludhaven while I put together the case..."  
  
"As I've done many times. It's what you were taught," Batman interrupted.  
  
"No. I could have locked him up any number of times. I wanted him to go down for murdering your parents. The others didn't matter to me. He had to stay put until I had him dead to rights. That meant shutting down his bank accounts, robbing him of his cash and passport, and finally putting the word on the street that he was going to turn state's on Infantino," Nightwing confessed, hanging his head slightly.  
  
Batman looked over at him. "Again, nothing we haven't done before. I'm not saying you were right. I'm saying I understand."  
  
"It doesn't matter that you understand, Bruce! When the DA moved up Infantino's indictment, he contracted every street hitter to nail Hadley. When I found out, I hit the street to track him down. It didn't take long, but the word was out. Hadley was desperate. He needed money to get out of Bludhaven..."  
  
"And he thought taking off a street dealer would be a quick score. He assumed the Ghost Dragons were just another low-rent Asian gang," Batman added. "The robbery went bad and they killed him. It's not your fault, Dick."  
  
Nightwing looked up at his adoptive father and removed his mask. "No, Bruce. It IS my fault. I was there."  
  
"What?" Batman asked incredulously.  
  
"I was there. They'd already beaten him pretty badly when I got there, but he was still alive. I froze. Batarang in one hand, decel launcher in the other. I just froze. It felt like forever, but it was probably just a few seconds."  
  
"Dick..."  
  
"I never could have killed him. Never. But I couldn't save his life, either. I was right there, Bruce. His life was in my hands and I froze," Dick said flatly, a tear making its way down his cheek.  
  
Batman took a step toward his son. "Dick...I...it's not your fault," he said forlornly.  
  
Dick managed a slight chuckle. "Gee, sound convincing, why don't you?" He shook his head sharply, pounding his fist on the building's ledge. "Dammit, Bruce! The whole point in handling it myself was so this wouldn't happen. I was scared of what you might do...what you might become. And it turns out I just should have come to you as soon as I found out."  
  
Batman quickly closed the distance between them and grabbed Dick's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You did the right thing, Dick. I...I've given a lot of thought to what might have been...and...and I'm glad you did what you did. It's the whole reason there's a Nightwing today. The only reason I kept you on as Robin after the Zucco case was that you chose justice over vengeance. It wasn't that I admired your maturity and heart, Dick. You made the choice that I knew I couldn't. I needed you there to remind me of what's right."  
  
Dick's eyes betrayed his disbelief. "You never would have crossed the line. You didn't need me for that."  
  
Bruce held his son's gaze, assuring his sincerity. "Perhaps not with Zucco or any of the others we faced over the years. But this... Looking in your eyes right now, Dick, I can't say that I wouldn't have killed Hadley. I was at the morgue tonight. Seeing his face brought it all back. I'm glad he's dead. Whether I would have killed him or not, seeing him lying there brought me a sickening sense of comfort.  
  
"Don't argue this with me, Dick. You said you were afraid of what I might do, and I'm saying you were absolutely justified in feeling that way. Case closed." Batman looked down and watched the BPD van pull away with the Ghost Dragons inside. "Let's head back to the Cave, Nightwing. We're done here," he said as he reached for his launcher.  
  
Dick was silent for a long moment. "No, we have to head to my place. As much as I hate to say it, this isn't over."  
  
"What do you mean?" Batman asked, turning back to face his partner.  
  
"Getting those Dragons into custody wraps up Hadley's murder, but Hadley's death just complicates my investigation."  
  
"Your case file leaves very few loose ends, and none of them are pertinent now that Hadley is dead, Nightwing."  
  
"Yeah, you're right. The Simon Hadley case is closed. But the Wayne murders are still unsolved," Nightwing said, his face full of regret.  
  
"Say it," Batman growled through clenched teeth.  
  
"I don't think the motive was robbery, Bruce. I have reason to believe that your parents were Hadley's first contract. Someone hired him to kill Thomas and Martha Wayne."  
  
  
  
End Chapter 4 


	5. Fractured Truth

What is life like for everyone else? This is a question that had plagued Bruce Wayne since he was a child. Growing up extremely wealthy, being orphaned at a young age, foregoing his adolescence to strive for physical and intellectual perfection, prowling the streets of Gotham City… There hadn't been a moment along the way where he felt even remotely normal.

For most people that might be a good thing, but Bruce had often yearned for an ordinary, predictable existence. Yet he had realized long ago that there was one thing that kept him from settling down: His complete inability to let go and move on. His parents' deaths drove him through a decade of relentless, self-imposed torture, then onward into his crusade as The Batman. The departure of Dick Grayson from Wayne Manor, the death of Jason Todd, the maiming of Barbara Gordon, the retirement of Jim Gordon, and on and on and on.

He knew that life outside the shadows could easily be worth living again if only he could manage to put these things behind him. He just couldn't. For years he thought it was because of guilt; that because he held himself responsible for so many tragic events, he owed it to the world to make amends. Tim Drake changed all that, proving through sheer determination and desire that one need only want something badly enough to make it a reality.

Why then? Responsibility? Duty? Honor? What kept him from casting aside his veil of darkness?

Dick, Jason, Barbara, Jim… What happened with them really had been his fault to a certain extent. It was his parents. The one life-shattering event that he always knew had been completely beyond his power to prevent; the one he truly could not blame himself for. Finding the man who killed them would surely bring him peace…

Wouldn't it?

"Why won't it end?" The Batman whispered to himself.

Nightwing started. Batman had been silent for a full minute. He appeared lost in thought. "Bruce?"

Batman shook his head. "Nothing. What makes you think…that… How did…"

"Hadley never took a life he didn't get paid for. The first guy on his list in '72, Roger Maitland, was clean. He was a textile worker, no arrests, nothing in his medical history to suggest a violent disposition, no connections to organized crime, no relation to anyone with a serious criminal history. He had a wife and two kids, all of whom remember him fondly." Nightwing took in the sight of his former partner. Batman was processing the information, but Dick could tell he was rattled.

"What else?" Batman asked in curt response.

"The other three on the list before your parents…all clean like Maitland, more or less. Freddie Baxter made book about ten years before, but he was out on his own, no mob connection. Then came your parents," Nightwing said with some hesitation.

Batman nodded, weighing Nightwing's words carefully. He turned away and peered out at Gotham's skyline. "Go on."

"The guy Hadley killed after your parents was the first mob hit I could tie him to. He was working for Dino LaRossa. Jim Gordon took the LaRossa family down on his way to making commissioner, and Dino died in Prison in '91. His nephew, Frank, got out in '96, then you put him back in two years ago. I went to see him and pressed him hard, Bruce. Really hard. There's no way he lied…"

"And?"

"Frank LaRossa knew Hadley. He was just a kid when your parents were killed, but he was neck-deep in his dad's business by the time he was sixteen. The way he tells it, no one really knew how his dad found Hadley, but he swears on his life that Dino had absolutely no dealings with your folks. He had no reason I could find to want your parents dead."

Batman turned back to Nightwing and spoke plainly, "Another dead end then."

"I don't think so, at least not completely. You've dug into this case a thousand times over the years, Bruce. You knew the second I mentioned his name that LaRossa had nothing to do with your parents' deaths. But you were specifically looking for anyone that had a motive," Nightwing said.

"What's your point?"

Dick moved closer to his mentor and looked up at him. "You didn't have Hadley or his connection to LaRossa. If Dino didn't stand to gain anything from your parents' deaths, then it stands to reason that Josh Hill was the first hit he contracted Hadley for. Hill, as you probably know, was in the city council. He fought for a legitimate union workforce in Gotham because he'd made his money in manufacturing, meaning a lot of construction and waste and, therefore, a lot of union jobs. Dino didn't want to lose his fat city contracts, so Hill had to go."

Batman narrowed his eyes. "So you're saying that there is some hidden connection between LaRossa and my father."

Nightwing shrugged. "It's possible, and that's what I thought at first. Hill wasn't as rich as your dad, but they were both active in the community in philanthropic ways. That lead goes nowhere though, so I started looking at it the other way."

"Meaning?"

"I only had one established pattern; that Hadley's first four hits were clean, upstanding citizens with no connection to one another. Then there's a supposed connection between your father and Josh Hill. Nothing concrete, just similarities. Going with that supposition, I got nothing but dead ends, so I turned it on its ear. What if your parents were the last people killed in the first pattern?" Nightwing hesitated a moment, then turned and began to pace.

"Josh Hill had a high profile and he knew he was rubbing bad people the wrong way. He had pretty solid personal security, his home was a veritable fortress, and you'd think he was pretty well protected on the job…"

Batman fell into a familiar intellectual rhythm with his former student at that moment. Were the matter not so personal and pressing, he'd have to admit that it had been far too long, and he missed it. "I see where you're going. If you're LaRossa, you'd want to bring in an outside man for a hit on someone with that type of profile."

Nightwing nodded his assent. "Exactly. And if Hill's protection was that formidable, you'd need a professional; someone bold enough to do it, yet smart enough not to get caught…"

"…and with enough ice in his veins and money in his pocket to keep his mouth shut if he did," Batman finished.

"If that's the case, then the earlier murders couldn't have been random. The first six victims, including the Waynes, have no connection to one another, but they might have all crossed paths with someone with the money and motive to contract their murders," Nightwing continued.

Batman furrowed his brow, then went wide-eyed. "And if you put my parents into the first pattern, a new pattern emerges… Three of the first six were women, yet only…," he trailed off, trying to recall the contents of the files he read hours earlier.

"After your mother, Hadley only killed two women in his entire career. One was collateral damage, the girlfriend of a rival mobster, and the other was Angelina Fulbright, an assistant DA." Nightwing stopped pacing and met Batman's eyes forlornly.

"All this time…," Batman said quietly with a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

Dick closed the distance between them and put a comforting hand on his adoptive father's shoulder. "You had no reason to think your mother was the target, Bruce. There were hundreds of reasons that someone could have wanted your father dead, and you only consider them if you get past the fact that it looked like a random robbery in every conceivable way.

Bruce considered Dick for a moment, then pulled away slightly. "When you came to this conclusion…"

Dick lowered his head. "It was too late, Bruce. I could have come to you at that point, but I went to the source instead. By the time I got to Hadley, he was surrounded by Ghost Dragons… I was that close to finding the truth, and I blew it. I failed you."

Batman was silent for a time. Dick needed comfort at that moment, and he'd certainly earned it. Somehow, Batman just didn't have it to give.

"You didn't fail. It could have been handled…differently. Coming to me…that…that wouldn't have been the right thing to do."

"You could have handled it, Bruce. With my help, you could have handled it."

Batman felt a sharp pain and looked down at his hands. He was almost surprised to find them clenched into fists. Learning the name of his parents' killer, discovering the connection that had eluded him so many times, knowing that the person ultimately responsible was still out there…it was too much. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and the blood pumping through his veins.

He forced himself to relax, then looked directly into Nightwing's eyes. "Trust me when I say this, Dick. I would have been useless to you. I only would have made things worse, perhaps irrevocably so."

Dick wanted to protest; to assure his father that he wouldn't have lost control, but then thought better of it because he wasn't so sure. "What now?"

Batman pulled his grapnel gun from his belt and motioned for Nightwing to follow suit. "Now we pick up where you left off. We may still be on our way to the truth."

"Alfred."

Bruce knew for a fact that he'd startled the older man, who stood with his back to him, minding a tea kettle on the stovetop in the kitchen of Wayne Manor. Yet Alfred stood stock still without so much as a flinch. During his years of training, Bruce had mastered all forms of stealth and awareness. But this, the art of practiced stoicism despite fear or surprise, he had most definitely learned from the butler who raised him.

Alfred turned slowly and took in the sight of his charge. Bruce was dressed in a sweatsuit, which usually indicated his intention to return to the streets of Gotham after a short stop at the manor. Bruce's demeanor was tentative, and the look on his face was unmistakably apologetic.

"Has Master Dick returned with you?"

"Yes, he's downstairs with Miss Troy," Bruce replied quietly.

"Is he well?"

"No worse for wear. He's lost a bit of weight, but I'm sure you'll take care of that," Bruce answered. "And you were right, of course. I shouldn't have doubted him."

"No. I would think by now you would realize that doubting Richard's actions and intentions is ill advised, especially where your welfare is concerned," Alfred said evenly.

"I'll try to keep that in mind." Bruce hesitated for a moment, hoping that Alfred would take the next step in the conversation. The scornful look bearing down on him made it clear that wasn't going to happen. "About earlier… The things I said, the way I behaved." Another pause. "I'm sorry, Alfred."

"As you should be. Sit down, Bruce," Alfred replied, motioning Bruce into a chair at the kitchen table. Bruce obeyed somewhat reluctantly, and Alfred took a seat opposite him.

"A few months ago, I saw Master Dick on the evening news. It was days after your disappearance with the rest of the Justice League at Atlantis. I had seen him the previous morning. The news of your 'death' shook him to his core, yet he assumed the position you asked of him without question or hesitation, putting his entire life on hold to honor your request."

Bruce hung his head a bit and continued to listen intently.

"Despite the years we have spent in one another's lives, I can count the number of times I have seen Master Richard in action on one hand. His Justice League was called upon to quell a raid on Boston by a united front of villains who felt the League's demise signaled an opportune moment to strike.

"Richard assembled his team along with his Titans allies and fought back the invasion in ninety minutes. A ragtag team of League replacements largely at odds with one another, coupled with a young team of heroes often scorned by the public. Nowhere near as powerful or respected as the team they collectively replaced, yet, to my eyes, just as effective, and likely more so. He led them as masterfully and effortlessly as a symphony conductor, all the while performing physical feats of his own that left my mouth agape." Alfred paused and snapped his fingers. "Look at me."

Bruce raised his head and looked Alfred in the eyes.

"On that day, I witnessed at long last the man that you and I raised. In my many years, I have met heroes and royalty; people of limitless grace, ability, and spirit. Yet I am proud to say that Richard Grayson is by far the finest man I have ever known."

Alfred shifted slightly in his seat, then continued. "He has you to thank for so much of who he is, Bruce. The smile, compassion, and hope? God knows where they came from. But the skill and training and determination; he gave up his youth at your request, and in return you gave him the tools he needed to become an amazing young man. But then there's the rest, Bruce. The way he doubts and tortures himself, his inability to commit to his heart's desires, the distance he keeps from his friends and family, the mindless obsession… You did that to him, as well.

"I applaud you for the hero you helped create. I thank you for the man you raised so much in your image. And I blame you for never showing him the love and respect he deserves."

The words hit Bruce square in the chest, but he held Alfred's gaze.

"For two years now, I have allowed you to treat me with disregard and disrespect. I allowed it because I know when this crusade of yours is over and done with, you will look back on it with regret. I know that somewhere inside you there still beats the heart of a boy whose smile once lit every room of Wayne Manor. I know that despite what the future may hold, there exists a bond between us that only we can break.

"I am here to tell you that it's breaking, Master Bruce. I can tolerate your dismissive attitude no longer, because it has now extended to Richard. I will NOT allow you to treat him in a similar fashion. I have long imagined that I will grow old in your charge, but I will leave if it means protecting whatever is left of the family we once were. You must quit focusing on honoring the dead and begin appreciating the living. Do you understand?"

"Yes," was all Bruce could offer in response. He knew Alfred was right on every count; that the rift between them had grown far too wide of late. He didn't know how to repair it, but he did know that now wasn't the time.

"You didn't come here to apologize," Alfred stated matter-of-factly, sliding his chair back.

"Please don't get up, Alfred," Bruce said with a look of concern. "I need to ask you about my mother…"

Far beneath the surface of Wayne Manor, Dick Grayson sat at a large computer console, munching on some finger sandwiches. He was still tired and somewhat withdrawn, but was beginning to believe there may soon be a light at the end of this hellacious tunnel.

"They've been talking for a while," Donna observed, making an effort to break the silence.

He looked up at her, still finding the air between them uncomfortable. Over the years, Dick had many "best" friends. The bond between him and the likes of Wally West, Joe Wilson, Tim Drake, and Roy Harper was unbreakably strong, but Donna was the one with whom he was never truly at odds. Even in their darker moments, they would lash out at one another in frustration and anger brought about by things completely beyond their control. It was never personal, though it sometimes felt that way. Donna Troy is simply his closest and dearest friend, and the strain his current dilemma was putting on that friendship only added to the mountain of guilt he already felt.

"Trust me, they have a lot to talk about," Dick replied.

"Are you angry with me for coming here? For telling Bruce and Alfred?" Donna asked cautiously.

Dick turned to her with a sympathetic look. "No, of course not. I was in a bad way and you helped me the only way you could. If anything, it's on me for putting you in the middle of all this."

"You can always come to me, Dick."

And there it was. That compassionate, sympathetic smile that always spoke volumes to him. He looked at her for a long moment then hung his head slightly. In truth, there was always a part of him that carried a torch for Donna. He'd never taken it all that seriously, but his love for her was one of the few certainties in his life. It wasn't romantic or passionate in nature, but rather adoration. She represented an ideal to him; a sense of intangible perfection. He would never feel worthy of her and didn't truly believe that anything more between them could be more special to him than their friendship already was.

So while he'd never really been in love with Donna, the prospect of falling for her always felt imminent. Maintaining that perspective was very much a high wire act and, lucky for him, he was perhaps the world's greatest acrobat. However, that still doesn't change how important she is to him, or how much he values being the man she believes him to be…even when he doesn't believe it himself.

"I know. I can explain all of this later, but for now, I just need you to know that I didn't kill Simon Hadley. It's a long story and I don't come off too well in it, but I didn't kill him," he said, eyes pleading.

"I didn't think you did. Not even for a second," Donna replied.

"But…"

Donna interrupted with a wave of her hand. "We were just investigating all of the possibilities and weighing the evidence we had. Hmmmm…I forget. Where did we learn that?"

"Nightwing," an ominous voice spoke from behind them.

Dick nearly jumped out of his skin as he stood and turned to face his mentor. That's the downside to Donna's affect on him. He feels so at ease around her that he often tunes the rest of the world out. "We ready?"

"Yes." The Batman watched as his former ward smiled warmly at Troia and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze as he made his way past her to the car. Alfred then descended the staircase and joined him in front of the console.

"It appears Master Dick will be just fine," Alfred casually stated.

Bruce glanced back at Dick and nodded. "Alfred… 'The smile, compassion, and hope? God knows where they came from'?"

"Yes?"

"There's a mirror in the study. You should take a look on your way back upstairs." With that, Batman nodded in Troia's direction and joined Nightwing in the Batmobile. They were gone seconds later.

Donna looked at Alfred skeptically. "Was it me, or did Batman just say something sweet?"

"Write down the date and time, Miss Troy. Such instances are indeed rare," Alfred replied as he began to climb the stairs once more.


	6. Bitter Ends

Once safely away from the Manor, Batman pulled the car over to the side of the road.

"Why are we stopping?" Dick asked.

"I have some information we need to process. A name. If it turns out to be what I think it is, I don't want Alfred or your friend nearby."

Dick started to ask another question, then thought better of it. Batman was implying that he had a strong lead on the person who ordered the murder of his parents. He didn't want Alfred around because of the fatherly bond he shares with Bruce. No father should see his son degenerate into a vessel of pure vengeance. And Donna… Dick could only guess that Bruce thought Donna might have the power to stop him. That meant Bruce wasn't sure he wouldn't be out to kill someone.

The only thing giving Dick hope at that point was that Bruce hadn't left him behind, as well. Maybe Bruce wanted him around to keep him emotionally grounded and accountable, Dick thought. But maybe...

"I need to know if the name Oliver Martel came up in your investigation."

Dick hesitated. Batman only wanted whatever information Nightwing could provide. Dick wasn't sure in that moment if Bruce Wayne was even in the car with them. "We're doing this together, right?" he asked tentatively.

"Answer the question."

Dick relented. "Okay, yes. Martel's name came up. But before we go any further with this, you need to know right now that I'm coming with you, no matter what." He locked eyes with his mentor, as if daring him to say otherwise.

Batman's jaw tightened as he turned to look out the windshield. Both hands gripped the steering wheel, and Dick could hear it giving way under the pressure. Finally, Batman replied in a seething whisper, "Fine. Now tell me what you know."

"Insurance records. Martel's name was on some insurance papers tied to Hadley from way back. Oliver Martel was big in corporate finance at one time. Hadley was listed as a security guard for his firm for about eight months in '71. That Martel's name was on Hadley's medical and life insurance records back then didn't raise any flags with me."

"So you didn't investigate Martel or the connection between them," Batman said.

"Oliver Martel. Born February, 1930. Decent upbringing, nothing that'd raise an eyebrow. Too young for World War II and his folks had enough pull to help him avoid Korea. So no history of violence, no time spent in the service or in prison. Graduated from Emerson in 1952 with a degree in business. Made a decent living until he found that creating tax shelters for the mob paid better. Moved up to laundering in '65, and that's where he made his fortune. The rest reads like a how-to book on white collar crime.

"His personal life is another story. He always had a taste for things he couldn't have. It didn't take much effort to tie him to things like art theft; hiring cat burglars to steal pieces he could brag about. He was definitely big on ego…"

"What about women?" Batman interrupted.

Nightwing shrugged. "Not a lot to go on. Lifelong bachelor, known to be a bit of a womanizer, but it's not something you can do much research on. Tabloids weren't such a big thing back then," he replied. "What did Alfred give you?"

Batman put the Batmobile back in gear and threw the throttle forward, rocketing the one-time partners back into motion. "He liked his women like he liked his art. Not interested unless they belonged to someone else."

"Your mother…"

"Rebuffing his advances was something of a tradition for my mother. Alfred doesn't remember exactly when, but it wasn't long before they died. Martel made a game of it. Alfred always felt that he seemed more interested in making my mother uncomfortable than anything else. My father hated it, but still never took the man seriously," Batman responded coldly.

"Did it ever come to a head?" Dick carefully inquired.

"I don't know. My parents were very proper people. This type of thing just isn't something you discuss. But there was a rumor that he made a pass at my mother at the Hillcrest Country Club one afternoon when my father wasn't with her. My mother wasn't raised in Gotham High Society…"

"So without your dad around, maybe it was finally time to nip things in the bud," Dick added.

"Rumor was she slapped him. It had to be at least somewhat public, and you know how loud the socialites around here whisper."

There was a long pause. "Martel was all about ego and appearances. He lives a life where he's hired to do the mob's financial dirty work. After a time, he starts hiring other lowlifes to do his dirty work. If you hire someone to steal a priceless portrait, why not hire someone to kill the woman who tore into your public reputation?" Nightwing supposed.

"It may not have been a murder for hire. He could have just hired Hadley to scare and rob them to make them look like weak victims around town. But my father fights back and Hadley pulls the trigger."

The Batmobile barreled down the dimly lit road at speeds surpassing 100 miles per hour. Nightwing had made the same drive hundreds of times, but never at that speed, even on his faster and more maneuverable motorcycles. "It's not a solid case, Bruce. We have to do some more digging."

"He'll confess."

"Martel's rich, but he's still a two-time loser. You helped Gordon take him down the first time with the rest of the Russian gangs ten years ago, and then once on your own four years later. He's old, Bruce. He won't want to die in jail, not as proud as he is," Nightwing argued.

"He. Will. Confess." The Batman growled.

Dick opened his mouth to protest once more, but was interrupted by the Batmobile's sudden, screeching stop. They had apparently arrived at the Martel estate. Batman was out of the car in a blink. Nightwing got out and ran to catch up, seized Batman by his cape, forcing him to stop.

"Listen to me, Bruce! The last time he went in, Martel flipped on a lot of nasty people. This place is gonna be crawling with armed guards."

Batman jerked his cape free of Nightwing's grasp and started marching again. He didn't get two steps before his protégé flipped over him and landed effortlessly in his path. Nightwing placed a hand firmly on Batman's chest to get him to stop.

"Look at me, Batman," Nightwing pleaded to no avail as Batman's gaze remained firmly on the path ahead of him.

"Look at me, or I swear to God I'll hit the JLA emergency beacon," Dick threatened at the top of his lungs.

Batman lowered his head and met Nightwing's eyes.

"I don't want to stop you, Bruce. I know you have to do this. But I'm coming in with you. I'm tired, and my body's close to quitting on me, but you know I can't let you go in there alone. I've got your back, and I'll probably need you to have mine."

"Fine. Let's move," The Dark Knight ordered as he stepped around Nightwing and began his approach.

Nightwing followed. He honestly felt fine, at least physically. But he figured if he could get Batman to focus at least a little on him in the coming fight, he had half a chance of keeping his fury in check. In short, Nightwing hoped that Batman's fear of losing another loved one was greater than his need for vengeance.

Oliver Martel's estate was nothing to write home about in Bristol County standards. It was perhaps a quarter of Wayne Manor's size, Nightwing guessed. The outer wall didn't even serve as a minor deterrent as the duo cleared it without breaking stride. Inside the estate wall, the grounds teemed with life, even at such a late hour. Perhaps even especially so, Dick thought.

Armed guards were positioned in predictable locations, and Nightwing found himself little more than a spectator as The Batman tore through them with savage precision. They would typically strike to incapacitate the opposition, but Batman clearly had something else in mind. Broken limbs and mangled faces became the order of the day as Batman moved toward the house. Thirteen men fell in the space of two minutes.

Then another twist. Infiltration was The Dark Knight's specialty. This was a man who could stand over the sleeping form of the President of the United States without throwing a punch or setting off a single alarm. Yet the idea of stealth was discarded at once as The Batman kicked down the front door of Oliver Martel's home.

"MARTEL!" he screamed, daring any and all comers to try to stop him.

At that moment Nightwing took the point, throwing himself into the first four men to enter the foyer from a nearby hallway as Batman made his way to the stairs leading to the upper bedrooms.

The men in front of him were clearly no match for Nightwing, but he pulled back and allowed them to land some costly blows. He kicked one attacker square in the jaw, then purposely pivoted into the butt end of a rifle that forced him backward, colliding hard with the carved, wooden banister. Nightwing cried out in pain, finally catching Batman's attention.

At once, Batman was over the rail and on top of Martel's men. Eight men now stood over the three Nightwing had dropped. They moved to train their weapons on Batman, but never got the chance. Nightwing intercepted one and dealt with him quickly, but when he turned to assist his mentor, he found himself of little use.

By that time, Batman had already knocked two men unconscious and was literally tossing the others into each other with abandon. Every punch or kick they threw was caught by the Caped Crusader. Not blocked. Caught. Each intercepted blow turned into a fluid aikido throw, then each attacker was rocked into unconsciousness as they attempted to scramble back to their feet.

Two more men entering the room quickly turned on their heels and ran in terror. Batman let them go, and the room went quiet. He stood stock still for a long moment, waiting for any sign of anything that might try to stop him from completing his mission. None came.

"Go easy, Bruce," was all Nightwing could say as Batman stalked up the stairs. He followed quietly from a distance. There was nothing else he could do.

Martel's bedroom door literally shattered as Batman entered the room. From where he stood, Nightwing couldn't tell if the door had broken from a punch or a kick. The stench of violence in the air suggested that it may simply have surrendered to Batman's unbending will without being touched at all.

Oliver Martel was yelling into a hand radio for help as they entered the room. When he took in the sight of The Batman slowly walking toward him with a razor-sharp batarang in his fierce, menacing grasp, he fell silent and immediately lost control of his bladder.

Nightwing stood off to the side. His mind raced, trying to choose which weapon to ready in case he needed to stop Batman from killing the cowering man. His arms ultimately fell to his sides as he realized that nothing could stop fate.

"Wh-what do you w-want with me?" Martel stammered as he shrank to his knees.

The Batman slowed to a stop in front of this pitiful excuse for a man and stared daggers at him, but said nothing.

"I-I'm clean now! I swear it!" Martel pleaded.

Batman held his body perfectly still and his gaze did not waver. He held the batarang so tightly in his left hand that its edges cut through his glove and skin. Blood dripped from his clenched fist to the ground. The sounds of the crimson fluid hitting the floor were all that broke the silence.

Oliver Martel flinched with the impact of each drop as he watched the blood fall. He raised his head to look into the face of the demon that stood before him. The man, if he was a man, didn't appear to breathe.

"P-please! I'll give you anything you want! Anything!"

Very slowly, The Batman reached down with his right hand and pulled Martel to his feet, forcing him to stand. When he let go, Batman raised his hand to his face.

"No…" Nightwing whispered inaudibly in disbelief.

In one smooth motion, The Batman pulled his cowl back to reveal the grim countenance of Bruce Wayne.

Martel looked on wide-eyed as the wraith unmasked himself. It took him a moment to recognize the man in front of him, and when the truth finally struck him, he took a full step back and raised both hands to cover his mouth in shock.

"You. Y-you're Bruce Wayne. Oh God! You're Bruce Wayne!" he shrieked.

Bruce remained perfectly still as his eyes bore into Oliver Martel, yet he still said nothing.

Martel began to shake his head. "I had n-nothing to do with it. I swear!"

Bruce Wayne's eyes went wide and his brow furrowed. His left hand raised slightly, his tortuous grip on the batarang now causing blood to flow freely from his fist to the floor.

"I-I only wanted to sh-shame her! I didn't t-tell him to kill anyone!"

That was it. The confession hung in the air, and Nightwing moved quietly to stand behind Martel.

"I swear to Jesus, Mr. Wayne! I never wanted anyone hurt! Please don't k-kill me…" Martel begged.

The haggard old man looked nothing like the beast Bruce Wayne fought in every nightmare he'd had since his parents' deaths. This man was diminutive and weak. Cowardly and ignorant. Pathetic and small.

Bruce realized in that moment something he had never truly considered before; that sharpened steel was perfectly suited for cutting flesh. The skin and veins would offer no resistance. It would require no force; actually little more than a flick of the wrist. And then he wondered what it would feel like to drain the life from someone. Would he feel guilt? No. He wouldn't. No guilt, no remorse, no regret. It might even feel good.

With every breath he drew in, his clarity of purpose became stronger. It wouldn't be justice, but it wouldn't be vengeance, either. It wouldn't serve a purpose at all, other than knowing once and for all that it was finally over. One flick of the wrist, a moment of steel on flesh, and the nightmare would end.

Martel fell to his knees again. He looked down at this shadow of a man and saw hate personified. His lips were moving, but Bruce couldn't hear his pleas for mercy. All Bruce Wayne could hear was the rush of blood through his veins, urging him onward, begging him to set things right.

Something drew his gaze upward, and he found himself staring at the visage of Dick Grayson. The look on his face was one of concern, but he said nothing. The rush of pumping blood ceased in that instant, and he heard the batarang fall to the floor at his feet. His eyes remained on his adopted son, and a long minute passed in absolute silence.

Dick flinched when Bruce finally spoke.

"Finish it," he said quietly as he turned and walked out of the room.

Nightwing felt the tension of the moment drain from his body as he reached down to help Oliver Martel to his feet. He spun him around gently to face him.

"You're going to call the police now, Mr. Martel. When they get here, you're going to ask them to read you your rights, and then you'll tell them that you ordered Simon Hadley to rob Thomas and Martha Wayne. You will waive your right to a lawyer and make a full confession, answering any and all questions they ask you truthfully. I have my suspicions about Roger Maitland, Charlene Edwards, Freddie Baxter, and Amanda Smith, too. Hiring Hadley to 'shame' people wasn't a one-time thing, so be sure to mention them to the police, as well. Do you understand me?"

Martel hesitated. "I-I will not," he said indignantly. "If you try to force me, I'll tell the world who he is."

Nightwing considered Martel's threat for a moment, then bent over to pick up Batman's dropped batarang. Then, in a single, fluid motion, he grabbed Martel by the throat, forced him hard into the wall behind him, and drove the batarang deep into the wall millimeters from his left ear. Nightwing moved in closely as he held Martel steady. He stopped with his left eye two inches from Martel's and began to whisper forcefully into the cowering man's ear.

"You really don't get it, do you, you stupid son of a bitch? You created The Batman, Oliver. You made him what he is. For fifteen years, he's wreaked untold havoc on every twisted criminal mind in Gotham City. The number of psychopaths that want him dead number in the hundreds, Martel. And what do you think those psychos will do to the man that created him? What do you think The Joker or Two-Face or Killer Croc will do to your family and friends? Do you have any idea what every inmate in Arkham Asylum will want to do to you, the man that unleashed The Bat?"

Nightwing released Martel and let him fall to the ground.

"No, I think Batman's secret is perfectly safe with you, Oliver. You breathe one word of it to anyone and you'll have signed your own death warrant. They'll kill you slow and they'll relish every precious moment of it. There's nowhere you can run where they won't find you and no amount of money that'll make them go away. The only thing in the world that could possibly stop them is the only man they fear, and I'm willing to bet that Batman will have better things to do when that day comes," Nightwing said, bitter disdain punctuating every syllable.

With that, Oliver Martel began to sob uncontrollably. Nightwing picked up the phone from the nightstand and placed it on the floor beside the broken man. "Dial."

Nightwing stayed until Martel called the police, then left the house in disgust. He returned to the Batmobile, but Batman was nowhere to be found. He moved the car so it wouldn't be seen and spent the next hour lurking in the shadows, making sure Oliver Martel gave the police his confession as ordered.

The sun had begun to rise over Bristol Township by the time Nightwing started his drive back to the Manor.

Donna Troy and Alfred Pennyworth were in the BatCave when Nightwing returned. They approached as he pulled the Batmobile to a stop and climbed out.

Nightwing removed his mask and looked at them. Tears welled in his eyes, but his expression remained strong and impassive.

"It's over, Alfred," he said simply.

Alfred's face was downcast. "Did he… Did…"

"No. Of course not. Martel is in custody. He gave a full confession."

"Where is Master Bruce now?" Alfred asked with concern.

Nightwing shook his head forlornly. "I don't know, but I'm sure he's okay. He just needs some time."

Donna closed the distance and placed a hand on his cheek. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. At least I will be." He opened his arms and hugged her closely. "I'm just glad it's over, Donna."

Alfred straightened and made his way to the staircase. "I'll leave the two of you alone. Bedrooms have been prepared for both of you. You need your rest."

The embrace lasted another long moment before the two old friends parted. "I should really call Babs. Meet you upstairs?"

"I'll be there. Take your time, but Alfred's right about the rest," Donna replied with a smile as she headed for the stairs.

Dick walked over and took a seat in front of the Crey. He pulled up the paging routine for Oracle and waited for her reply.

When Barbara Gordon's face appeared on the large monitor before him, a wave of relief washed over him. "Hi, Babs," he said quietly.

Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw him, and the shock lingered as she took in the sight of his beleaguered condition. He could see the anger flash in her eyes momentarily, then breathed a soft sigh when her expression changed to one of compassion and concern.

"Are you okay?"

Dick nodded weakly. "As good as can be expected. It's a really long story, and I don't know how much of it you already know, but it's over now. Everyone's in one piece." He paused for a moment. "It's just really good to see you."

Her expression softened a bit more. "You look terrible, Dick."

"Yeah, well you'll have to look good enough for both of us for the next couple weeks," he smiled in reply.

"You know you're in trouble for not calling?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"For making me worry?"

"Yes."

"And you'll never do it again?"

"I swear I won't."

"And you know there will have to be some kind of punishment?"

"Uh huh."

Barbara paused and took another long look at him. As beat up and exhausted as he was, he still managed to call her before collapsing, she thought.

"And you know I love you?" she asked with a sincere smile.

"I do. I love you, too, Babs."

"Good. Now go get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake up," she said.

Dick managed a weak, sleepy grin. "What a coincidence, cuz that's where I'm gonna be when I wake up," he said as he closed the connection.

Late the following afternoon, Alfred descended the staircase to the foyer of Wayne Manor after a nap of his own. Hearing a voice, he headed to the kitchen where he found Donna Troy finishing a phone call.

"Hi, Alfred," she said as she hung up. "How was your nap?"

"Fitful, but sufficient, Miss Troy. I trust everything is well?"

Donna shrugged absentmindedly. "Dick got some sleep. He went over to Barbara's about an hour ago. I just finished bringing the other Titans up to speed. No word from Bruce yet, I'm afraid," she said sadly.

"I assure you there's no need to worry. Master Bruce will be along in his own time."

She nodded her understanding, even if it was somewhat forced. "I made some tea."

"I see that," Alfred replied as he politely helped himself to a cup and took a sip. "Excellent. I cannot tell you how helpful you have been during this ordeal. I know it may not appear to be the warmest of homes, but please know that you are always welcome here."

Donna gave the kind older man a reassuring smile. "That's sweet. I can't imagine not feeling welcome with you around."

Alfred acknowledged the compliment with a kind nod. "As for that bit of business between you and Master Bruce last evening… You have known him quite a long time, and I'm sure you understand a great deal of what motivates him. His behavior toward you last night, however, was unforgivable. Trust me when I say that is not typical of him, and that I know he thinks very highly of you."

"Oh, I understand, Alfred. I know there's a fiercely emotional man beneath that gruff exterior. Given what he was dealing with last night, I don't blame him at all for letting some of that emotion show."

"I'm glad. You are very kind, Miss Troy," Alfred replied.

"And you're one of the greatest men I've ever met, Mr. Pennyworth. They're lucky to have you," Donna said with a wink. She leaned over and gave Alfred a peck on the cheek. "I should head back to New York. Do you want me to help you find Batman before I go?"

Alfred patted her hand gently. "No, that won't be necessary. I know precisely where he is. Thank you again for being here. Have a pleasant trip home."

Alfred walked along the Manor grounds, reminded of a time in his younger days when he once helped tend to them. A few short years after the deaths of young Bruce's parents, Bruce left to travel the Orient in search of physical and intellectual knowledge. Alfred knew the journey was equally about getting away from the bitter memories that haunted Wayne Manor, but allowed his young charge whatever comfort could be found in distance and denial.

In his absence, Alfred was left with little to do and thus began his rose garden there on the eastern grounds. He would spend hours tending to it and one other area nearby. It was there that he'd often found Bruce alone soon after his return to Gotham and in the many years since.

The Wayne valet had once questioned the wisdom of burying Thomas and Martha so near to where Bruce lived. He feared the headstones would serve as a constant reminder of something Bruce so obviously needed to put behind him. It ultimately proved a blessing, for in his adult years it became the one place on the Wayne estate where it seemed Bruce did not feel alone.

So it came as no surprise to Alfred when he found Bruce there, sitting atop the graves of his parents, but staring away from them at the setting sun. Bruce couldn't see him approach, but knew he was there.

"You cannot stay out here like this, Master Bruce," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, Alfred."

"It's quite all right. Come inside and have something to eat."

Bruce turned to look at him. "No, I mean that I'm sorry about last night. And before that, too. I don't know why I've been so difficult. Everything just seemed so complicated and too far gone."

Alfred nodded his understanding. "And in the light of what has transpired since yesterday, you're beginning to see things with more clarity," Alfred added.

"Yes." Bruce got to his feet to properly address Alfred. "He saved me last night. Did he tell you that?"

Alfred shook his head. "Master Dick told me only what you would have wanted him to. That it was over. That the man responsible had confessed and was in custody. Nothing more."

"I wanted to do it, Alfred. If he hadn't been there, I would have done it. There's no doubt in my mind," Bruce confessed. He hung his head as though he expected to be scolded for the sinful admission.

"Left alone with the man, I likely would have done the same. Master Dick did not save you, nor would he have saved me." Alfred stepped closer, forcing Bruce to look him in the eye.

"Richard reminded you that you still have much to live for, Master Bruce, that's all."

Bruce considered Alfred's words. "Perhaps," he said as he looked back at the setting sun. "Did you know that I come out here a lot?"

"Yes."

"That I talk to them?"

"As I have, on occasion," Alfred responded as he knelt down to brush some debris from the headstone of Martha Wayne.

"I usually talk about the work, regrets, and lives lost. The frustration and guilt that comes with it all. I don't think I've ever come out here and told them about the good things I've done, or about Dick or Tim or Jason… the good things that have happened to me. I never talk about you…"

Alfred nodded sadly. He'd always hoped Bruce had taken solace in this place, and it pained him to learn that he'd come here to take his place beside them; to bury himself in guilt and regret.

"And today? What did you tell them today?" he asked.

Bruce looked down at the graves of his parents. "I told them about Dick. How he came here to their home and saved me from myself. How proud of him they would be. And how, because of Dick, they can finally rest in peace after all these years…"

Alfred placed his hand on Bruce's shoulder and led him back toward the Manor. "I'm certain your parents are very proud of Richard, Master Bruce. Just as proud as they are of you, I would imagine."

END


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